THE  DESERTERS 


HE  CRUSHED  THE  CIGAR  IN  HIS  HAND  AND  RAISED   HIS  CLENCHED   FIST 
AS  IF  HE  WOULD  STRIKE  HER— PAGE  187 


NEW    YORK 

THEH.K.FLY    COMPANY 

PUBLISH  E 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    "TAPS" 9 

II.     "EYES  FRONT!" 23 

III.  A  PLAN  OF  CAMPAIGN 31 

IV.  ON  THE  MARCH 46 

V.    RECONNOITERING 58 

VI.  ON  ACTIVE  SERVICE 68 

VII.  A  SKIRMISH 79 

VIII.  "BOOTS  AND  SADDLES" 92 

IX.  "To  THE  COLORS!" 109 

X.  SURRENDER 125 

XI.  "GRAND  ROUNDS" 139 

XII.  "ON  GUARD!" 152 

XIII.  KEEPING  STEP 163 

XIV.  A  MASKED  BATTERY       176 

XV.  IN  OPEN  ORDER 188 

XVI.  ON  PAROLE 203 

XVII.  A  FLAG  OF  TRUCE 214 

XVIII.  WITHIN  THE  LINES 225 

XIX.  UNDER  FIRE 238 

XX.  A  FLANK  MOVEMENT 251 

XXI.  GETTING  THE  RANGE 262 

XXII.  SHARPSHOOTING 275 

XXIII.  "REVEILLE" 299 


2136359 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

He  crushed  the  cigar  in  his  hand  and  raised  his 
clenched  fist  as  if  he  would  strike  her. 

Frontispiece 

He  was  not  the  man, 136 

Jim  Craig  was  a  prisoner,  with  two  soldiers  on 
either  side  of  him, 201 

"This  is  a  queer,  crooked  business," 281 


THE  DESERTERS 


CHAPTER  I 
"TAPS" 

THE  flickering  of  a  candle  upon  the  wall, 
a  wild  noise  of  storm  outside.     Shad- 
ows, and  a    door    blown  open  by  the 
wind.    A  voice  stilled  quickly,  in  the  darkness 
beyond  the  door.     An  empty,  windy  room — 
and  the  flickering  of  the  candle  upon  the  wall ! 
Out  of  the  blackness  came  a  man's  face. 
The  eyes,  dimmed  by  alcohol,  stared  vacantly 
for  an  instant  into  the  yellow-red  embers  of  a 
dying  fire.     Then  the  face  disappeared,  and 
that  of  a  woman  took  its  place. 

It  was  pretty,  this  woman's,  but  pitiably 
lacking  hi  character.  The  eyes  were  too  round 
and  wide-open;  the  smooth,  plump  cheeks 

9 


io  THE   DESERTERS 

could  never  have  been  furrowed  by  a  strong 
emotion.  Why,  they  did  not  show  a  wrinkle 
even  now,  when  the  half-open  mouth,  the  ner- 
vous glances  from  side  to  side,  and  the  hurried 
pushing  back  of  the  tumbled  light  hair,  told 
dumbly  of  mortal  terror.  But  they  were  death- 
ly white. 

Gradually  the  full  le'ngth  of  her  became  visi- 
ble in  the  faint  glow  from  the  fireplace,  as  she 
stood  there,  holding  the  top  of  her  flowing 
wrapper  close  to  her  neck.  Then  she  moved 
into  the  gloom  and  became  a  mere  shadow  near 
the  man. 

"Who  is  that  ?"  she  demanded  in  a  low  voice, 
imperious  from  fear. 

The  windows  rattled  noisily  in  the  wind 
— for  a  Kansas  hurricane  raged  outside — and 
the  raindrops  battered  the  glass  like  the  dis- 
tant clatter  of  musketry. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,  Mrs.  Marston.  I'm 
not  a  burglar.  You  don't  find  such  gentry  at 
an  army  post,  you  know." 

The  man  laughed  drunkenly  at  his  own 
feeble  pleasantry.  She  moved  the  candle  to  a 
table  between  them,  and  the  light  revealed  him 
as  a  young,  well-looking  fellow,  in  the  uni- 


"TAPS"  M 

form  of  a  second  lieutenant  His  cap  was  in 
his  hand.  A  certain  looseness  of  attire — the 
jacket  slightly  awry,  a  button  unfastened,  a 
sleeve  pulled  up  from  the  wrist  in  unsoldierly 
creases — all  told  of  the  carelessness  begot  of 
strong  drink.  Undoubtedly  intoxication  was 
in  the  flushed  cheeks,  disordered  hair  and 
thick  speech. 

He  blinked  around  the  apartment.  It  was 
a  typical  garrison  sitting-room,  such  as  may 
be  found  repeated  in  officers'  quarters  over 
and  over  again  all  the  way  from  Governor's 
Island  to  the  Pacific  coast.  Domestic  comfort 
and  rough-and-ready  militarism  curiously 
mixed.  Portraits  of  famous  soldiers  and  bat- 
tle scenes  on  the  walls;  a  sword,  with  its  belt, 
standing  in  a  corner ;  books  with  warlike  titles 
in  an  old-fashioned  bookcase;  well-worn  up- 
holstered walnut  furniture,  which  had  passed 
from  one  occupant  to  another  for  generations. 
Mingled  with  these  relics  of  a  by-gone  time, 
newer  articles  bearing  the  impress  of  personal 
association — a  white  enameled  desk,  a  gilt 
chair,  embroidered  cushions,  photographs,  and 
and  so  forth. 

The  clear  notes  of  a  bugle  cut  through  the 


12  THE  DESERTERS 

din  of  the  storm.  It  sounded  "Taps."  The 
young  officer  started  and  a  look  of  embarrass- 
ment drove  the  smirk  from  his  lips.  In  a 
steadier  voice  he  said: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Marston.  I  did 
not  think  it  was  so  late.  I  hope  you'll  forgive 
me." 

"But — why  did  you  come,  Lieutenant 
Craig?  Didn't  you  know  my  husband  was  not 
here — that  he  was  on  duty?" 

"I  didn't  think  about  him  at  all.  Why 
should  I?  I  came  to  see  you.  We've  been 
jolly  good  friends,  you  and  I,  and  I  thought 
you  would  not  object  to  a  quiet  little  chat.  If 
Marston  happened  to  be  away,  so  much  the 
better.  He's  a  good  fellow,  but,  like  most  hus- 
bands, he  is  in  the  way  sometimes." 

He  laughed  stupidly  again.  Then  he 
lurched  toward  a  chair,  and,  with  a  rather 
wabbly  flourish,  motioned  her  to  sit  down.  She 
drew  back,  with  an  attempt  at  dignity. 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,  Lieutenant  Craig. 
I  cannot  recall  that  anything  has  passed  be- 
tween us  which  would  warrant  your  visiting 
me  at  this  hour,  after  'Taps/  in  the  absence 
of  my  husband." 


"TAPS"  13 

Jim  Craig  stared  at  her  vacantly.  It  took 
time  for  ideas  to  penetrate  his  liquor-confused 
understanding.  At  last  he  answered,  trying 
hard  to  control  his  voice: 

"Nothing  has  passed  between  us,  as  you  say, 
Mrs.  Marston.  But  I  like  a  bright  woman. 
There  is  no  harm  in  that,  is  there?  Of  course 
it  is  wrong  for  a  fellow  to  squeeze  her  hand — 
if  she  objects.  If  she  doesn't,  why,  he'd  be  a 
fool  not  to  do  it  when  he  gets  the  chance.  Flir- 
tation is  the  spice  of  life,  and — I  like  spice. 
Well,  that's  all.  If  you  dismiss  me,  I'll  go. 
I  always  obey  orders." 

He  marched  to  the  door  that  led  to  the  court- 
yard. There  he  turned  to  face  her.  Clicking 
his  heels  together,  he  raised  his  right  hand  in 
salute.  Half-drunk  as  he  was,  soldierly  in- 
stinct prevailed.  His  salute  was  as  full  of 
"snap"  as  when  he  had  learned  to  do  it  at  West 
Point  years  before. 

She  waved  him  away  impatiently.  He 
swung  around  to  the  door.  As  he  opened  it 
a  gust  of  wind  from  a  raised  window  in  the 
hall  shouldered  its  wray  in,  billowed  her  flimsy 
white  draperies,  and  again  burst  open  the 
door  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 


ii4  THE  DESERTERS 

A  smothered  cry  from  the  woman  made  Jim 
Craig  look  back  and  exclaim  thickly : 

"Good  Lord!    Who'd  have  thought  it?" 

In  the  doorway,  fumbling  at  the  door  in  a 
vain  effort  to  get  it  shut,  stood  a  man.  An 
officer,  like  himself,  but  of  higher  grade — a 
captain.  His  face  was  pale.  Moreover,  it  be- 
trayed a  decidedly  unwarrior-like  apprehen- 
sion. As  he  met  the  gaze  of  Craig,  he  stepped 
forward  into  the  room,  by  the  side  of  the 
shrinking  Mrs.  Marston,  and,  somewhat  blus- 
teringly,  demanded : 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Lieutenant 
Craig?" 

A  slow  smile  crept  over  the  face  of  the 
younger  man.  He  looked  cynically  from  the 
captain  to  the  woman  and  back  again,  before 
he  returned: 

"I  am  just  going  out.  What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

The  captain  advanced  threateningly. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Only  Mrs.  Marston  has  just 
reminded  me  that  it  is  very  late  for  a  gentle- 
man to  call  on  her.  Well,  she's  right;  there 
can  be  no  question  about  that.  I  had  apolo- 


"TAPS"  15 

gized  for  my  intrusion,  when  I  saw "  He 

broke  off,  to  laugh  with  contemptuous  amuse- 
ment. "When  I  saw — you.  In  her  room  and 
in  the  dark!  I'm  sorry — for  her  sake — that 
the  door  blew  open.  I'm  afraid  it  has  annoyed 
her.  And " 

The  captain  interrupted  him  with  an  oath 
and  made  as  if  he  would  attack  him  with  his 
fists.  The  woman  ran  between  them. 

"Hush!" 

"Don't  be  distressed,  Mrs.  Marston,"  said 
Craig  easily.  "I'm  going.  It's  none  of  my 
business  why  Captain  Harrison  is  here.  Per- 
haps he  came  to  see  Marston.  Of  course,  he 
did.  He  wouldn't  be  blackguard  enough  to 
be  hiding  in  your  room  with  any  other  ob- 
ject." 

Again  the  captain  tried  to  push  past  her. 
She  beat  her  two  hands  upon  his  breast  and 
pushed  him  back. 

"No,  no!"  she  whispered  hoarsely.  "You 
must  not!  Keep  quiet!  For  mercy's  sake, 
don't  make  a  noise !" 

The  captain  touched  her  hands  with  his  own 
reassuringly,  as  he  hissed  at  Craig: 

"You're    drunk,    Lieutenant    Craig.      You 


16  THE  DESERTERS 

don't  seem  to  realize  that  you  are  speaking  to 
your  superior  officer." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do.  I  know  you  are  a  captain, 
while  I  am  only  a  second  lieutenant.  I'm  not 
drunk,  either.  But  I've  had  just  enough  to 
feel  like  letting  you  hear  a  few  things  that 
maybe  no  one  has  ever  given  you  before.  'In 
vino  veritas'  you  know.  Now,  I'm  not  such  a 
fool  as  to  think  you  were  in  that  dark  room 
waiting  to  see  Lieutenant  Marston " 

"Shut  your  mouth,  you  drunken  idiot!  It 
was  nothing  of  the  kind.  I " 

The  bantering  smile  left  the  face  of  Lieu- 
tenant Jim  Craig.  The  lips  hardened  into  a 
straight  line.  With  the  quick  change  in  tem- 
per peculiar  to  certain  stages  of  intoxication, 
he  interrupted  savagely: 

"What  are  you  talking  about?  Don't  you 
think  I  can  see  ?" 

"Be  quiet!"  begged  the  woman.  "Please — 
please  don't  make  a  noise  here." 

She  stepped  to  the  window  and  peeped  out 
between  the  heavy  curtains  into  the  storm. 
"My  husband " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Marston,"  said 
Craig  in  a  lower  tone.  "I  won't  make  a  noise. 


"TAPS"  17 

But  I  want  to  say  to  this  fellow,  who  sneaks 
in  to  make  love  to  his  friend's  wife  when  he 
thinks  there  is  no  danger,  that  I  have  no  use 
for  him.  He's  my  ranking  officer.  On  the 
parade  ground  I  have  never  forgotten  it.  He 
knows  that.  But  I'm  not  speaking  to  him 
now  as  a  lieutenant  to  his  captain.  We  are 
man  to  man,  and  I  can  tell  him  what  I  think 
of  his  coming  here  to  compromise  the  good 
name  of  a  woman,  just  as  I  would  if  he  had 
never  worn  shoulder-straps  in  his  life." 

"This  comes  very  well  from  you,"  sneered 
Captain  Harrison.  "Why  are  you  sneaking 
in  here?" 

"Because  I  am  an  ass,"  replied  Craig.  "If 
I  hadn't  been  drinking  I  shouldn't  have  done 
it.  I  came  to  see  Mrs.  Marston.  I  confess 
that.  I  thought  she  liked  me.  She  has  been 
gracious  and  pleasant,  and  I  presumed  on  it. 
Then,  to-night,  I  drank  more  than  I  should, 
and  came  here  on  an  irresponsible  impulse." 

"Humph !"  scoffed  Harrison. 

"Seeing  you  has  brought  me  to  my  senses. 
I  thank  the  Lord  I  have  the  right  to  look 
Marston  in  the  face  as  a  clean  man,  and  the 
right,  as  well,  to  look  into  yours  and  tell  you 


i8  THE  DESERTERS 

to  your  teeth  what  decent  people  think  of 
hounds  like  you." 

The  woman  could  no  longer  keep  them  apart. 
Captain  Harrison  flung  her  hands  violently 
away  from  him,  as,  frantic  with  anger,  he 
fairly  howled  at  Craig: 

"I  told  you  to  shut  up !     Now " 

He  hurled  himself  upon  the  lieutenant.  So 
furious  was  he  that  he  could  not  set  himself  to 
strike  with  anything  like  precision.  On  the 
other  hand,  Craig,  a  finished  boxer,  threw  up 
his  hands  and  arms  scientifically.  He  parried 
easily  the  fierce,  but  futile,  blow  of  his  assail- 
ant. Simultaneously  his  left  fist  shot  out, 
straight  from  the  shoulder,  and,  with  a  dull 
smack,  struck  Harrison  on  the  chin. 

The  captain  crumpled  up,  senseless,  at  the 
feet  of  the  woman. 

There  was  tense  silence  for  a  moment. 
Then 

"Merciful  Heaven !  He's  dead !"  she  gasped, 
and  dropped  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  the 
unconscious  man. 

Craig  seemed  to  be  almost  sobered  now. 

"No.     He'll  come  to  himself  in  a  few  mo- 


"TAPS"  19 

ments,"  he  said,  in  a  hollow  whisper.  "Get 
some  water." 

She  ran  into  the  next  room,  and,  after  what 
seemed  to  Craig  a  terribly  long-  absence,  re- 
turned with  a  glass  of  water.  She  wetted  her 
lace  handkerchief  and  dabbled  it  on  the  white 
face,  while  he  slapped  the  hands  and  tried 
other  methods  of  restoring  consciousness  com- 
mon in  the  prize-ring  and  gymnasium  after  a 
"knockout." 

But  Harrison  never  moved.  He  lay  flat 
upon  his  back — still,  white,  awful!  Craig 
pushed  up  one  of  the  eyelids.  He  found  the 
eye  dead.  The  hands  were  cold,  and  there  was 
a  horrible  clamminess  on  the  forehead.  Craig 
looked  at  the  woman.  What  he  felt  in  his  heart 
was  reflected  in  her  face. 

"God !    I've  killed  him !"  he  groaned. 

"Yes,  you've  killed  him,"  she  returned 
stonily. 

Craig  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  mutter- 
ing to  himself.  Then  he  rushed  from  the  room 
pell-mell  into  the  tempest  that  was  still  tearing 
its  way  among  the  barrack  buildings.  He  never 
stopped  till  he  reached  his  own  quarters. 


20  THE  DESERTERS 

Only  one  thing  was  in  his  disordered  mind — 
to  put  as  great  a  distance  as  possible  between 
himself  and  the  Thing  that  lay  on  the  carpet 
in  Mrs.  Marston's  sitting-room.  He  moved 
about  with  feverish  haste.  It  did  not  take  him 
long  to  change  his  appearance.  In  a  derby  hat, 
a  raincoat  over  his  sack  suit,  and  with  an  um- 
brella in  his  hand,  he  soon  became  the  counter- 
part of  hundreds  of  ordinary  American  citi- 
zens abroad  in  the  storm  that  night.  Then  he 
slipped  out. 

It  took  him  some  time  to  clear  the  post,  for 
he  must  dodge  at  least  one  sentry.  He  was 
still  manoeuvring  on  the  edge  of  the  parade 
ground  to  pass  the  guard  line,  when  he  heard 
a  shot,  muffled  by  distance. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  He  did  not  know.  But 
it  made  him  take  the  chance  of  a  run  across 
the  roadway,  although  the  sentinel  was  not 
twenty  yards  away.  The  rain  and  high  wind 
favored  him.  Soon  he  was  walking  briskly 
through  the  mud  and  water  to  the  city. 

In  less  than  an  hour  he  was  in  the  "smoker" 
of  a  train  going  west. 

"That  shot!"  he  mused,  as  he  took  a  cigar 
from  his  pocket  and  mechanically  bit  off  the 


"TAPS"  21 

end.  "It  must  have  been  fired  as  an  alarm 
when  they  found  Harrison  dead.  Dead?  God 
have  mercy  on  me !  Why,  I'm  a  'murderer!  I ! 
Jim  Craig!  I've  killed  a  man!" 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  seemed  to  be  face 
to  face  with  what  he  had  done.  He  trembled 
from  head  to  foot,  as  he  raised  his  clenched 
hand  and  looked  at  it — white,  sinewy,  hard  as  a 
baseball.  His  face  was  drawn,  his  eyes  red- 
rimmed  and  staring. 

"Why  didn't  the  fool  let  me  alone?  He  be- 
gan it.  If  he  hadn't  made  a  drive  at  me,  I'd 
never  have  hit  him.  And  I've  killed  him !  It 
was  all  that  woman !  She  played  me  off  against 
him.  I  can  see  it  now.  He  was  jealous. 
That's  the  explanation.  Well,  she's  not  the 
first  woman  to  make  men  kill  each  other." 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  uttered  a  fierce,  foul 
curse,  and  in  conjunction  with  it  came  the 
word,  hissed  in  bitter  scorn,  "Women!" 

He  lighted  his  cigar  and  began  to  puff  at  it 
furiously.  For  the  time,  at  least,  Jim  Craig 
hated  all  women. 

The  conductor  came  through  the  car.  Craig 
had  bought  a  ticket  for  Denver.  He  meant  to 
stay  there  for  a  few  hours.  Then  he  would 


'22 

take  an  express  straight  through  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. He  was  a  deserter  now,  and  the  sooner 
he  put  himself  far  away  from  his  regiment  the 
better. 

"Bad  night!"  remarked  the  conductor,  as 
he  punched  Craig's  ticket.  "But  I  don't  sup- 
pose you  soldiers  mind  that." 

"Soldier  ?    What  made  you  think " 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  used  to  be  in  the 
army  myself,  and  I  put  you  down  for  an  officer 
as  soon  as  I  saw  you  come  through  the  train. 
I  can  generally  tell  the  swing  of  a  cavalry- 
man." 

"Well,  you're  wrong  this  time.  I  learned 
to  ride  on  a  cattle  ranch.  A  man  isn't  obliged 
to  go  into  the  army  to  be  a  horseman." 

"No,  that's  so,"  conceded  the  conductor.  But 
he  added  to  himself,  as  he  walked  down  the 
aisle:  "All  the  same,  you're  no  cow-puncher. 
You  wouldn't  have  those  soft  white  hands  if 
you'd  been  used  to  roping  and  tying  cattle  on 
the  plains." 

As  the  train  rushed  on  toward  the  Rockies, 
Jim  Craig  wondered  just  how  pronounced  a 
cavalry  stride  he  really  had. 


CHAPTER  II 
"EYES  FRONT!" 

IT  was  a  bright  morning  in  May.  Nearly 
four  weeks  had  passed  since  Lieutenant 
Jim  Craig  stole  from  the  fort  in  the  rain 
and  darkness  to  take  the  train  for  the  far 
West.  Colonel  Parsons  stood  at  the  window 
of  his  study,  overlooking  the  parade  ground, 
where  the  spring  sun,  playing  hide-and-seek 
with  the  clouds,  sent  light  shadows  dancing 
over  the  greensward,  and  now  and  then  flashed 
insolently  in  the  face  of  the  colonel  himself. 

But  he  did  not  mind  the  sun.  He  was  watch- 
ing his  troops  go  through  their  regular  morn- 
ing drill,  and  he  was  not  pleased  with  their 
work. 

By  his  side  stood  Surgeon-Major  Long.  The 
latter  was  as  touchy  on  all  matters  concerning 
the  honor  of  the  regiment  as  the  colonel  him- 
self. So  when  the  commanding  officer  ex- 
pelled his  breath  in  a  disgusted  "Humph!" 


24  THE   DESERTERS 

Doctor    Long    echoed    it    with    a    despairing 
"Woof!" 

"Pretty  ragged,  eh,  doctor?"  said  the  colo- 
nel. 

"Yes.  That  line  is  so  crooked  you  can't  see 
the  end  of  it  from  here.  What's  the  trouble? 
Those  new  horses  ?" 

"Partly.  Green  mounts  will  spoil  any  for- 
mation unless  they  are  held  well  in  hand." 

The  drill  went  on. 

An  incoherent  order  was  snapped  out 
gruffly  by  an  officer  who  had  galloped  his  horse 
near  to  the  window.  A  bugle  call  followed, 
and  sixty  cavalrymen  swept  past  in  two  long 
lines — swords  glittering,  accoutrements  jin- 
gling, and  the  gay-colored  guidon  streaming 
and  flapping  in  the  wind. 

Again  an  order,  repeated  by  the  bugler,  and 
the  men  reined  up  to  the  left,  leaving  room  for 
another  troop. 

"That's  not  bad,"  observed  the  doctor. 

"No,  that's  Ward's  lot,  'K.'     He  handles 

them  very  well.     But  look  at  *D.'    What  the 

deuce  is  the  matter  with  them  ?    They  used  to 

be  the  smartest  troop  in  the  regiment." 

.  "H'm!    They're  all  out  of  hand,"  grunted 


"EYES  FRONT"  25 

Doctor  Long.  "That  was  Craig's  troop,  wasn't 
it?" 

"Yes.  Collins  has  it  now.  I'll  have  to  send 
for  him  and  rake  him  over  the  coals." 

"Poor  Craig !  What  a  mess  he  did  make  of 
it!  You've  never  heard  anything  about  him 
since  he  went  away  that  night,  have  you  ?" 

"Not  a  word.  We  ran  to  his  quarters  as 
soon  as  we  found  Harrison  was  dead.  But  he 
had  gone.  He  had  taken  time  to  put  on  civilian 
clothes  and  to  gather  up  what  money  he  had. 
His  uniform  was  lying  on  the  bed,  just  as  he 
had  thrown  it  off.  He  must  have  gone  direct 
to  the  railroad  station  in  town.  The  ticket 
agent  knew  him  by  sight.  He  told  me  Craig 
had  bought  a  ticket  to  Denver." 

"I  never  heard  that  before.  Did  you  trace 
him  to  Denver?" 

Colonel  Parsons  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  twice.  When  he  stopped  abruptly  in 
front  of  his  companion,  a  curious  expression 
was  in  his  face.  He  looked  the  doctor  straight 
in  the  eye,  as  he  answered,  in  a  deliberate  tone : 

"No.    I  did  not  trace  him." 

There  was  a  pause.    Doctor  Long  nodded. 

"I  understand,  colonel,"  he  murmured. 


'26  .THE  DESERTERS 

"I'm  sure  you  do,  doctor.  I  told  the  ticket 
agent  not  to  repeat  what  he  had  told  me  to 
anybody  else.  He  thinks  Craig  is  only  a  de- 
serter. We  sent  out  a  report  from  the  fort 
that  Harrison  had  shot  himself  accidentally. 
I  have  influence  enough  with  the  civil  authori- 
ties to  get  them  to  take  my  view.  It  was  my 
duty  to  report  to  Washington,  of  course.  But 
the  War  Department  can  keep  its  own  secrets. 
It  will  never  leak  out  there,  you  may  be  sure." 

"I  suppose  there  is  no  question  that  Craig 
did  kill  Harrison  ?" 

"Well,  we  have  the  evidence  of  the  Mars- 
tons.  They  heard  a  shot  in  their  sitting-room, 
and  when  they  ran  in,  found  Harrison  dead 
on  the  floor.  He  had  been  shot  in  the  back. 
Craig's  pistol  lay  by  the  side  of  the  body." 

"But  what  motive  could  there  have  been? 
Craig  and  Harrison  were  pretty  good  friends. 
At  least  they  always  seemed  so.  Another 
thing.  What  the  blazes  were  they  doing  in 
Marston's  quarters  at  that  time  of  night?" 
.  Colonel  Parsons  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I've  puzzled  over  that  for  four  weeks.  Any- 
one can  see  there  is  a  delicate  side  to  the  mat- 
ter." 


"EYES   FRONT"  27 

"Hum !"  grunted  the  doctor. 

"Washington  is  sending  me  a  woman  de- 
tective. She  will  try  to  bring  Craig  back — as 
a  deserter.  She's  a  daughter  of  Captain  Sum- 
mers, who  died  in  Cuba." 

"What?    Summers  of  the  Sixth?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  well !  Good  man,  Summers !  I  didn't 
know  he  had  a  daughter.  Detective,  eh? 
Queer  profession  for  a  girl,  isn't  it  ?" 

"It  doesn't  seem  so  for  her.  You  see,  her 
father  having  been  an  officer,  she  was  brought 
up  in  a  military  atmosphere,  and  her  love  and 
reverence  for  the  army  amount  to  a  passion. 
I'm  told  she  is  one  of  the  best  detectives  in  the 
service.  She's  caught  many  a  deserter." 

"But  Craig  is  worse  than  a  deserter." 

"Not  to  her,"  rejoined  the  colonel  quickly. 
"She  doesn't  know  he  is  charged  with  mur- 
der." 

"Why,  how " 

"She  absolutely  refuses  to  touch  any  case 
where  there  is  a  possibility  of  capital  punish- 
ment. Headquarters  has  warned  me  of  that." 

"That  so?    How  will  you  get  around  it?" 

"I've  given  orders  that  no  one  is  to  tell  her 


28 

about  Harrison's  death.  She's  been  told  that 
Craig  struck  a  superior  officer  and  ran  away. 
That's  all.  She'll  never  find  out  about  the 
murder  around  the  post.  Even  a  woman  is 
welcome  to  anything  she  can  get  out  of  my  men 
when  they've  been  ordered  to  hold  their 
tongues." 

"Kind  of  tough  on  her,  it  seems  to  me," 
growled  the  doctor. 

"It's  for  the  good  of  the  service,"  replied 
the  colonel,  somewhat  sternly.  "Everything 
must  give  way  to  that.  And,  anyhow " 

The  doctor,  who  was  standing  at  the  window, 
idly  looking  out,  interrupted  him  with  a  sudden 
shout. 

"By  George!  I  thought  she'd  be  trampled 
to  death,"  he  cried.  "She  was  right  square  in 
the  way!  If  the  men  hadn't  been  halted,  they 
must  have  ridden  over  her." 

"Who  is  it?" 

Colonel  Parsons  was  at  the  window  by  this 
time.  He  saw,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
great  parade  ground,  a  girl  of  about  twenty, 
calmly  smiling  at  the  excited  officer  who  had 
dashed  up  to  warn  her  of  her  danger.  A  few 
yards  away,  sixty  mounted  men  had  reined  up, 


"EYES   FRONT"  29 

in  response  to  the  command  to  "Halt!"  and 
every  man  of  them  was  gazing  at  her  approv- 
ingly. In  her  neat  tailor-made  suit  of  black 
and  white,  and  under  a  new  spring  hat,  she 
was  a  good  excuse  for  their  admiration. 

The  trouble  was  all  over  in  a  few  seconds. 
With  a  smile  for  the  officer  in  command  and 
a  sidelong,  friendly  glance  at  the  line  of  cav- 
alrymen, the  girl  walked  swiftly  toward  the 
colonel's  quarters.  The  doctor  grinned  through 
the  window. 

"She's  a  self-possessed  young  lady,  if  ever 
I  saw  one/'  he  said.  "Suppose  she  should 


"I  guess  that's  who  it  is,"  broke  in  the  colo- 
nel. "She  was  to  arrive  this  morning." 

"Well,  she's  used  to  military  tactics,  or  she'd 
never  have  kept  her  head  with  that  troop  gal- 
loping straight  toward  her.  The  average  girl 
would  have  screamed  and  tried  to  get  out  of  the 
way." 

Colonel  Parsons  laughed. 

"She  knew  better  than  that,"  he  chuckled. 
"She  just  let  them  charge  until  they  were 
stopped.  That  was  the  officer's  business,  and 
she  knew  it." 


30  THE  DESERTERS 

The  girl  had  come  into  the  building  by  this 
time.  A  tap  at  the  door,  and  the  entrance  of 
an  orderly  interrupted  the  conversation.  The 
man  saluted  and  handed  a  card  to  the  colonel. 

"Miss  Madge  Summers,"  read  Colonel  Par- 
sons, aloud.  "Show  the  lady  in,  orderly." 


CHAPTER  III 

A   PLAN   OF   CAMPAIGN 

SHE  stood  in  the  doorway,  smiling.  Just 
a  slip  of  a  girl,  but  with  something  in 
the  firm  chin,  as  well  as  the  honest, 
straight-gazing  gray  eyes,  that  told  of  the  abil- 
ity to  carry  a  set  purpose  to  fruition. 

Perfectly  self-possessed  she  was,  as  she 
looked  from  the  colonel  to  the  doctor  and  back 
again. 

"I  come  from  Headquarters  at  Washing- 
ton." 

Her  voice  was  rather  deeper  than  might 
have  been  expected,  but  wholly  feminine. 
There  was  a  Celtic  cadence  in  it  that  pleased 
the  colonel,  and  his  heavy  gray  mustache  went 
up  in  a  smile  of  welcome. 

"I  am  pleased  to  see  you,  Miss  Summers. 
Let  me  present  our  surgeon,  Major  Long.  I 
knew  your  father,  Captain  Summers,  of  the 
Sixth,  very  well.  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you 

31 


32  THE  DESERTERS 

when  Headquarters  told  me  they  had  sent  a 
detective,  however." 

"Don't  I  look  like  one?"  she  asked,  with  a 
smile. 

"Well,  possibly.  You  are  the  first  I  ever  met. 
But  I  assure  you  that  I  feel  inclined  to  desert 
to-morrow  if  you'll  bring  me  back." 

"Ah,  colonel,  I'd  never  bring  you  back." 

She  said  this  almost  absently,  as  her  quick 
eyes  flashed  about  the  room.  Then  she  looked 
through  the  window  to  the  parade  ground, 
where  the  troopers,  having  been  dismissed, 
were  galloping  their  horses  toward  the  stables. 

"Miss  Summers,"  blurted  out  the  colonel, 
as  he  placed  a  chair  for  her  near  his  desk, 
"your  mother  was  of  Irish  birth,  was  she 
not?" 

"Well,  colonel,  she  was  born  in  America. 
But  her  father — my  grandfather — came  from 
County  Cork." 

"I  knew  it!"  he  shouted.  "I  could  have 
sworn  to  it.  And  he  kissed  the  blarney  stone 
so  often  that  its  virtues  descended  to  his  grand- 
daughter." 

"Yes,  colonel,  I  guess  he  did  kiss  it  once  in  a 
while.  And,  what's  more,  when  he  crossed  the 


A   PLAN   OF   CAMPAIGN         35 

sea,  he  brought  a  bit  of  the  stone  with  him.  I 
have  it  now,  and  I  kiss  it  every  morning  be- 
fore breakfast,  d'ye  moind." 

She  said  this  with  a  demure  smile  and  a  little 
touch  of  brogue  that  sent  both  Colonel  Par- 
sons and  Doctor  Long  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
So  violent  was  it  that,  in  the  colonel's  case,  it 
threatened  to  become  apoplectic. 

"Ah,  that  accounts  for  it  all,"  he  spluttered. 
"I  suppose  you  always  carry  it  with  you,  eh?" 

"Certainly;  I  have  it  right  where  it  belongs 
— in  my  vanity-box."  Then,  in  a  business-like 
tone,  she  went  on:  "Will  you  kindly  tell  me 
what  this  case  is?  I  learned  practically  noth- 
ing in  Washington.  I  only  know  I  am  to  bring 
back  a  deserter." 

"Yes,  that's  it.     He's  a  deserter." 

"Poor  fellow!  I  always  feel  so  sorry  for  a 
man  who  leaves  his  regiment  in  that  way. 
Somehow,  a  deserter  reminds  me  of  a  runaway 
horse,  who  does  not  know  why  he  does  it,  and 
keeps  on  only  because  he  is  nervous  and  be- 
wildered and  is  afraid  to  stop." 

"You  love  horses,  Miss  Summers?"  said  the 
doctor. 

"Yes,  as  much  as  I  love  soldiers.    In  the  ab- 


34  THE  DESERTERS 

stract,  of  course,"  she  added  quickly,  with  a 
smile.  "That's  why  I  threw  up  a  case  I  had 
just  before  I  came  here." 

"Threw  it  up?  Wasn't  that  unusual?  I 
didn't  know  you  ever  did  that." 

"Well,  doctor,  I  love  my  profession.  But 
there  are  some  things  I  won't  do.  I  found 
that  the  man  I  was  told  to  bring  back — he  be- 
longed to  the  Seventeenth — was  wanted  for 
murder.  I  will  not  touch  a  case  of  that  kind. 
It  would  make  me  feel  like  an  executioner." 

"And  yet,  when  a  man  has  killed  another, 
surely  he  should  be  made  to  answer  for  it," 
protested  the  colonel.  "It  doesn't  always  mean 
punishment  for  him,  you  know.  Sometimes  it 
turns  out  that  the  act  was  justifiable — in  a  de- 
gree, at  least.  In  any  case,  as  a  man,  he  should 
not  be  afraid  to  face  the  music." 

"Perhaps  so.  But  I  won't  have  anything  to 
do  with  such  cases.  I  just  can't;  that's  all." 

"The  sentiment  does  you  credit,  Miss  Sum- 
mers," broke  in  the  doctor,  with  his  customary 
vehemence.  "I  don't  see  how  anybody  could 
ask  you  to  do  such  a  thing.  Eh,  colonel?" 

"Eh?    Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  was  the  colonel's 


A   PLAN   OF   CAMPAIGN         35 

halting  response.  "But  about  this  case,  Miss 
Summers  ?" 

"Yes.    What  made  your  man  desert?" 

Colonel  Parsons  glanced  rather  helplessly  at 
Doctor  Long.  That  energetic  gentleman  came 
to  the  rescue  immediately: 

"In  a  nutshell,  Miss  Summers,  one  of  our 
boys  got  to  drinking  too  much,  struck  a  superi- 
or officer,  and  skipped  out.  Those  are  about 
the  facts,  I  believe." 

Colonel  Parsons  nodded. 

"That  sounds  very  simple,"  she  said.  "Have 
you  a  photograph  of  the  man?" 

"I  will  send  for  one,"  was  the  colonel's  an- 
swer. "We  have  traced  him — or  think  we  have 
— to  the  Pacific  coast.  We  have  had  the  ports 
watched,  and,  so  far  as  we  can  find  out,  he 
has  not  left  the  country." 

"Then  it's  merely  a  matter  of  sifting  the 
waterfront,  I  should  say." 

Sifting  the  waterfront !  She  spoke  as  if  this 
were  as  trifling  a  task  as  picking  out  a  blue 
bead  in  a  white  necklace.  Sifting  the  water- 
front! To  watch  every  seaport  city  from 
Seattle  to  San  Diego,  and  lay  her  hand  on  a 


'36  THE   DESERTERS 

man  she  had  never  seen,  and  who  would  doubt- 
less have  adopted  another  name  and  be  making 
every  effort  to  conceal  his  identity!  Yet  this 
young  girl,  little  more  than  a  child,  calmly  con- 
templated doing  this  offhand  and  with  no  mis- 
giving of  failure. 

Colonel  Parsons  looked  at  her  in  involuntary 
admiration. 

"I  like  to  see  soldiers  keen  about  their  work," 
he  said.  "And  you  are  a  soldier — starting  on 
a  hard  campaign,  too." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  colonel,"  she  laughed. 
"It's  all  in  the  day's  work.  As  there  is  a  clue 
pointing  to  the  West,  I'd  better  leave  here  to- 
day. I'll  go  to  San  Francisco  first.  I  ought 
to  pick  up  the  trail  of  my  man  there.  It's  the 
most  likely  place,  anyhow.  By  the  way,  is  he 
a  noncom.  or  a  private?" 

"Why,  Miss  Summers,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  was  neither.  He  was  a  second  lieutenant." 

"A  commissioned  officer?"  she  cried,  sur- 
prised. "And  a  deserter?  An  officer  of  the 
army,  to  go  back  on  his  colors?  Why  should 
you  want  to  find  a  man  of  that  sort?  I  should 
say  you  were  well  rid  of  him.  An  enlisted  man 
— a  ranker — is  different.  He  is  answerable 


A   PLAN   OF   CAMPAIGN         37 

only  to  his  officers.  But  an  officer  is  directly 
responsible  to  the  government — to  his  country. 
When  he  goes  away,  as  you  tell  me  this  lieu- 
tenant has  gone,  it  is  an  outrage  on  the  whole 
army — treason  to  the  flag !" 

In  her  indignation  she  rose  from  her  chair, 
and — perhaps  unconsciously — fixed  her  eyes  on 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  floating  from  the  lofty 
pole  in  the  mfddle  of  the  parade  ground. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
Colonel  Parsons  said  gravely: 

"Miss  Summers,  this  is  an  exceptional  case. 
Lieutenant  Craig  has  gone  away  somewhere 
in  the  deepest  shame  and  regret.  That  we 
know.  He  is  a  good  officer  and  a  splendid 
fellow.  Because  of  his  popularity  he  was  led 
into  temptation  when  drink  was  about.  He 
was  under  the  influence  of  intoxicants  on  the 
night  of  his  disappearance.  It  led  to  his  strik- 
ing a  superior  officer." 

"What  a  pity !"  murmured  the  girl.  "Still, 
even  that  hardly  explains  why  he  should  run 
away.  Who  was  the  officer  ?  May  I  see  him  ?" 

The  colonel  and  Doctor  Long  drew  quick 
breaths. 

"Why — er — he  is  away  just  now." 


'38  THE  DESERTERS 

"Is  he  ?  Well,  after  all,  it  isn't  important  for 
me  to  see  him.  If — I  should  take  the  case " 

"But  you  will  take  it,  won't  you,  Miss  Sum- 
mers?" interrupted  the  colonel.  "They  are 
very  anxious  at  Headquarters  that  you  should." 

"But  what  good  would  it  do  to  bring  the  man 
back?  You  can't  make  him  stay.  All  you  can 
do  is  to  force  him  to  throw  up  his  commission 
and  put  disgrace  upon  him.  No ;  I  don't  want 
to  take  this  case.  If  I  had  known,  I  would  not 
have  come  here  at  all.  Whenever  I  go  after  a 
deserter,  I  must  feel  that  I  am  helping  him." 

"In  what  way?" 

"By  bringing  him  back  to  a  new,  square 
life,"  she  replied  promptly.  "Not  merely  drag- 
ging him  to  the  guardhouse  for  punishment." 

Colonel  Parsons  strode  up  and  down  the 
room  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  The  girl's 
attitude  perplexed  him.  All  the  more  because, 
secretly,  he  agreed  with  her.  He  would  have 
preferred  to  let  Jim  Craig  escape,  if  it  had  been 
consistent  with  his  duty.  He  did  not  believe 
that  the  young  man  was  altogether  to  blame. 
Like  everybody  else  at  the  post,  he  had  heard 
a  great  deal  about  the  suspicious  relations  be- 
tween Harrison  and  Mrs.  Marston. 


A   PLAN   OF   CAMPAIGN         39 

Suddenly  Craig  became  a  factor  in  the  scan- 
dal. Then  the  question  of  the  hour  was 
whether  he  would  cut  Harrison  out.  It  had 
never  been  answered.  The  tragedy  could  be 
read  whichever  way  one  chose.  Now,  if  the 
young  man  were  brought  back,  the  whole  mis- 
erable business  must  be  threshed  out,  with  the 
moral  certainty  that  the  good  name  of  the  post 
would  suffer. 

The  colonel  knew  that  men  don't  kill  each 
other  for  nothing,  as  a  rule,  and  he  honestly 
believed  that,  judged  strictly  by  the  code  of 
honor,  Craig  had  done  only  what  he  must  when 
he  slew  Captain  Harrison. 

He  could  not  explain  all  this  to  the  dainty, 
but  determined,  young  lady  at  the  window, 
however.  If  he  held  her  services  at  all,  it  must 
be  only  to  capture  a  deserter — not  to  take  a 
murderer.  Fortunately,  she  did  not  suspect 
that  Craig  had  done  anything  worse  than  strike 
a  superior  officer.  She  never  must  know — un- 
til she  had  got  her  man.  Then  it  wouldn't 
matter.  A  cold-blooded  argument,  the  colonel 
admitted  to  himself.  But, "unhappily,  the  whole 
business  was  cold-blooded. 

"Miss  Summers,"  he  said  briskly,  to  hide  his 


40  THE   DESERTERS 

uncertainty  as  to  her  intentions,  "you  must 
have  a  photo  of  Lieutenant  Craig.  I'll  see 
about  getting  one  at  once." 

The  girl  was  looking  out  of  the  window  at  a 
khaki-clad  soldier  who  chanced  to  be  passing, 
and  she  did  not  answer.  The  colonel  smiled. 
He  felt  he  was  gaining  his  point. 

"Orderly!"  he  called. 

The  man  came  in  and  saluted. 

"My  compliments  to  Lieutenant  Marston, 
and  will  he  kindly  send  me  the  photograph  of 
Lieutenant  James  Craig  in  his  possession?" 

As  the  orderly  disappeared,  the  colonel 
walked  over  to  the  side  of  the  girl,  who  was 
still  following  the  soldier  with  her  eyes  as 
he  walked  across  the  grass. 

"Fine  fellows  you  have,  Colonel  Parsons," 
she  said  musingly,  without  looking  away  from 
the  window.  "Even  your  enlisted  men  have 
as  much  style  as  some  officers  I've  seen  else- 
where. I  can't  help  wondering  how  this  Lieu- 
tenant Craig  could  find  it  in  his  heart  to  leave 
them." 

"When  a  man  has  committed  a  crime,  es- 
pecially in  the  madness  of  liquor,  he  may  do 


A   PLAN   OF   CAMPAIGN         41' 

anything.    He  has  lost  his  sense  of  proportion, 
I  should  say,"  returned  the  colonel  gravely. 

She  swung  around  like  a  flash. 

"You  said  'crime'  colonel." 
;      He  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Striking  a  superior  officer  is  a  crime — a 
very  serious  one  under  the  'Articles  of  War/  ' 

"Yes,  that's  true.  I  know  that,"  and  she 
nodded  sadly. 

The  colonel  strolled  away  from  her  and 
busied  himself  with  some  papers  on  his  desk. 
Doctor  Long  was  by  his  side.  He  had  been 
listening  to  the  conversation. 

"What  do  you  suppose  made  her  take  me  up 
on  that  word  'crime/  doc?"  whispered  the 
colonel. 

"I've  no  idea.  But  she  can't  know  anything 
about  the  Harrison  business.  I'm  sure  of 
that,"  was  the  comforting  response. 

"I  hope  not." 

The  orderly  came  in. 

"Lieutenant  Marston  is  bringing  the  photo- 
graph, sir." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  Marston  entered.  He  was 
a  dark  man,  with  very  black  eyes  and  a  face 


42  THE   DESERTERS 

lined  with  stormy  passions.  He  handed  the 
colonel  a  photograph. 

"Hello,  Marston!  You  needn't  have  given 
yourself  riiis  trouble,"  said  Colonel  Parsons,  in 
his  hearty  way.  "Why  didn't  you  send  it?  I 
felt  certain  you'd  be  willing  to  let  me  have  this 
picture.  Mrs.  Marston  took  it  with  her  kodak, 
didn't  she?  It  is  the  only  one  of  Craig  that  I 
know  of,  and Oh,  pardon  me!  Lieuten- 
ant Marston,  this  is  Miss  Madge  Summers,  of 
the  Secret  Service.  She  has  come  from  Wash- 
ington to  trace  Lieutenant  Craig  for  us.  I 
wanted  the  picture  for  her  use." 

As  Marston  and  the  girl  acknowledged  the 
introduction,  each  gave  the  other  a  quick,  pene- 
trating look.  There  was  indefinable  appre- 
hension in  that  of  the  man.  She  caught  it  and 
wondered. 

"What's  he  afraid  of?"  she  thought.  "And 
how  is  it  his  wife  has  the  only  picture  of  Craig 
in  the  post?  H'm!  I  wish  I  knew  all  the  de- 
tails of  this  case.  Because  then " 

The  harsh  voice  of  Marston  interrupted  her 
reflections. 

"I  should  like  to  have  that  picture  back  when 
you  have  finished  with  it,  colonel,"  he  said. 


A   PLAN    OF   CAMPAIGN         43 

"I  can  promise  that  it  will  be  returned  safe- 
ly," he  answered,  as  he  placed  the  photo  in 
Miss  Summers'  hand. 

She  looked  at  the  pictured  face  with  intense 
interest,  and  seemed  to  have  forgotten  every- 
thing else,  until  she  suddenly  broke  out,  with- 
out looking  up : 

"Colonel,  would  it  be  possible  for  me  to  talk 
with  the  last  persons — besides  Captain  Harri- 
son— who  saw  Mr.  Craig?" 

"Mrs.  Marston  was  the  last  person  to  talk 
to  him  in  barracks,"  said  the  colonel. 

"No,"  put  in  Marston,  with  a  black  frown. 
"Thwayte,  on  orderly  duty,  saw  him  pass 
later." 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  plainly  puzzled. 
"I  did  not  remember  that." 

"Thwayte,  then,"  said  Miss  Summers.  "May 
I  see  him?" 

The  colonel  looked  vexed  and  worried. 

"Why,  that's  unfortunate,"  he  returned. 
"Most  unfortunate.  Thwayte  was  invalided 
home  some  days  ago." 

The  girl  sighed  impatiently.  What  a  use- 
less, unhelpful  lot  they  all  were.  But  she  shook 


44  THE  DESERTERS 

aside  her  momentary  disgust,  and,  with  her 
usual  smile,  asked : 

"Can  you  tell  me  anything  about  Lieuten- 
ant Craig's  personal  appearance,  tastes,  hab- 
its?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  colonel.  "As  you  see,  he 
is  good  looking,  and  wears,  or  did  wear,  a 
short  mustache.  He  is  tall  and  his  eyes  are 
gray.  He's  fond  of  horses,  as  a  cavalryman 
should  be,  plays  the  piano  a  bit,  and  makes  a 
bluff  at  singing  when  in  congenial  company." 

"I  see.  In  other  words,  he  is  a  rattling  good 
soldier.  Popular  with  the  ladies,  too,  I  have 
no  doubt." 

"Colonel,"  interrupted  Marston,  his  face 
white  and  his  black  eyes  like  two  dark  pits. 
"Have  you  any  further  orders  for  me?" 

"No,  Marston.  This  is  all.  I'll  see  you  get 
the  picture  back.  Tell  Mrs.  Marston,  will 
you?" 

Marston  saluted  the  colonel.  Then,  as  he 
bowed  to  Miss  Summers,  she  saw  again  that 
hunted  expression  and  wondered.  He  stalked 
out,  and,  as  he  went,  Doctor  Long  joined  him. 

"Colonel,"  said  Miss  Summers,  turning  to 
him,  the  portrait  in  her  hand,  "I've  decided  to 


A   PLAN   OF   CAMPAIGN         45 

take  this  case.  From  all  I  can  hear  of  Lieu- 
tenant Craig,  he  is  too  good  a  man  to  be  al- 
lowed to  go  to  ruin.  It  is  clear  to  me  that 
his  one  hope  of  finding  himself  lies  in  his  get- 
ting back  to  his  regiment,  taking  his  punish- 
ment, whatever  it  may  be,  and  resolving  not  to 
be  a  fool  again.  I'll  start  for  San  Francisco 
this  afternoon." 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON   THE   MARCH 

THE  earnestness  with  which  Miss  Madge 
Summers  suddenly  declared  her  deter- 
mination took  the  colonel  rather  by 
surprise.  He  should  have  been  pleased.  He 
did  not  quite  know  whether  he  was  or  not.  But 
there  was  no  hesitation  in  his  manner  as  he 
said  quietly: 

"I  thank  you,  Miss  Summers.  It  is  for  the 
good  of  the  service.  Your  loyalty  will  be  ap- 
preciated at  Headquarters.  Mr.  Craig  was  a 
second  lieutenant,  it  is  true,  and  I  know  you 
have  never  taken  a  case  like  it  before.  But  I 
felt  sure  that,  on  consideration,  you  would  see 
how  little  the  deserter's  rank  has  to  do  with 
the  action  to  be  taken." 

"Still,  I  do  not  understand.  Wouldn't  it 
have  been  much  easier  for  Lieutenant  Craig 
to  resign  his  commission,  instead  of  running 
away  in  the  night?  As  you  say,  the  fact  that 


ON   THE   MARCH  47 

he  was  under  the  influence  of  drink  must  ac- 
count for  what  he  did,  I  suppose." 

"It  accounts  for  his  whole  trouble,"  replied 
the  colonel.  "In  his  proper  senses,  he  was  the 
last  man  to  have  been  guilty  of  treating  a  rank- 
ing officer  with  disrespect,  much  less  of  strik- 
ing him." 

"I  wish,  colonel,  you  would  tell  me  just  what 
took  place  that  night." 

Colonel  Parsons  looked  away  from  her  in 
frowning  thought. 

"Is  that  essential,  Miss  Summers?  You 
know  that  he  left  the  regiment  illegally,  after 
a  gross  breach  of  discipline,  and  that  you  are 
charged  with  bringing  him  back.  Is  not  that 
sufficient  for  your  purpose?" 

She  laughed.  The  colonel,  who  had  an  ear 
for  music,  felt  a  thrill  as  if  a  particularly  sweet 
organ  tone  were  ringing  through  the  room. 
Miss  Summers'  voice  was  one  of  her  natural 
assets  which  lost  nothing  of  their  value  when 
she  was  amused. 

"Don't  you  allow  anything  for  feminine  curi- 
osity, colonel?" 

"Not  in  your  case,  my  dear  young  lady.  I 
don't  believe  you  would  permit  that  weakness 


48  THE  DESERTERS 

(or  virtue,  if  you  like)  to  interfere  with  your 
profession." 

"My  profession?"  she  repeated,  her  face 
clouding  over.  "Yes,  I  must  not  forget  that. 
And  yet  sometimes  it  is  such  a  relief  to  get 
away  from  it,  to  drop  the  scent  of  the  trail, 
to  feel  for  a  few  moments  that  I  am  just  a 
girl,  like  others,  instead  of  Miss  Summers  o£ 
the  Secret  Service — the  man-hunter." 
"I  thought  you  loved  your  calling." 
"I  do  love  it,  when  I  am  fairly  at  work.  My 
father  was  a  soldier,  and  something  of  the  old 
campaigner  must  be  in  me.  It  showed  early. 
Even  at  school  I  longed  for  adventure.  I'm 
afraid  I  sought  it  occasionally.  Not  that  there 
was  much  adventure  to  be  found  there.  Slip- 
ping out  of  bounds  to  get  down  to  the  candy 
store  and  holding  moonlight  supper  parties  in 
the  dormitory  was  about  the  extent  of  it.  Oc- 
casionally we  were  caught.  That  meant  pun- 
ishment— in  the  shape  of  extra  lessons  and 
confinement  to  the  academy  yard.  But  who 
cared  for  that  ?  We  used  to  imagine  ourselves 
in  a  moated  grange,  with  a  great  drawbridge, 
and  portcullis,  and  battlements,  and  donjon 


ON   THE   MARCH  49 

keeps,  and  towers,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Oh, 
it  was  great  fun!" 

Again  that  organ-toned  laugh,  with  the  vox 
humana  stop  on.  The  colonel  joined  in  with 
his  deep  "Ha,  ha !"  and  the  orderly  outside  the 
door  wondered  what  the  "old  man"  and  the 
girl  were  having  such  a  good  time  about.  He 
was  almost  desperate  enough  to  open  the  door 
and  see. 

"But  you  have  much  more  serious  adventures 
now  ?" 

"Indeed  I  have.  In  every  case  the  life  and 
career  of  some  man  is  at  stake.  Of  course,  I 
don't  mean  that  the  men  I  am  after  are  ever  in 
actual  danger  of  losing  their  lives.  Desertion 
in  time  of  peace  is  not  a  capital  offence.  If  it 
were,  I  should  not  be  an  army  detective.  Do 
you  know,  colonel,  I  have  never  caught  a  de- 
serter who  really  objected  to  going  back  to  his 
regiment  ?  It  is  this  innate  loyalty  on  the  part 
of  the  true  soldier  that  reconciles  me  to  the 
deceptions  I  am  obliged  to  practice  almost  con- 
tinually." 

"Yes,"  said  the  colonel,  "I  suppose  you're 
required  to  be  something  of  an  actress." 


50  THE   DESERTERS 

"Actress?"  she  echoed,  with  a  laugh.  "That 
is  the  essence  of  my  work.  When  I  am  in  the 
harness  it  is  rarely  in  my  own  person.  I  think 
my  liking  for  mimicry  is  partly  responsible  for 
my  becoming  a  detective.  I  love  to  wear  a  dis- 
guise. You  see,  to  find  my  man,  it  is  so  often 
necessary  for  me  to  become  an  essential  part 
of  the  life  into  which  I  am  thrown.  I  may  be 
an  old  apple  woman,  sitting  behind  my  basket 
on  a  street  corner,  a  waiter  in  a  restaurant,  or 
a  dancer  in  a  music  hall.  Sometimes  I  am  some 
poor  little  shabby  person  whom  nobody  no- 
tices— a  mere  city  waif.  But  always  I  must 
keep  eyes  and  ears  open.  I  am  playing  a  game 
in  which  I  have  no  partner,  and  any  false  move 
counts  against  me — and  me  only." 

Looking  at  this  girl,  in  her  well-made  frock, 
and  her  spring  hat  set  on  her  head  with 
just  that  touch  of  "style"  that  comes  natural  to 
some  women,  it  was  hard  to  imagine  her  as 
anything  but  a  very  attractive  young  lady.  Her 
assertion  that  she  was  sometimes  an  old  apple 
woman,  for  instance,  seemed  preposterous. 
That  is,  until  one  noted  the  flashing  of  the  eyes, 
the  coming  and  going  of  the  rose  color  in  the 
cheeks,  and  the  firm  line  of  the  pretty  mouth. 


ON   THE   MARCH  51 

Taking  all  these  into  account,  one  never 
doubted  that  Miss  Summers  could  be  at  will 
anything  or  anybody  she  pleased. 

Madge  declined  the  colonel's  invitation  to 
luncheon  with  his  family.  She  had  to  return 
to  the  hotel,  she  said,  to  arrange  about  her 
baggage  and  to  get  her  ticket  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. It  would  employ  all  her  time  until  she 
took  her  train.  She  met  Mrs.  Parsons,  how- 
ever, and  that  stately  lady  was  much  taken  with 
the  bright  young  girl  who  followed  such  an 
unusual  profession. 

It  also  chanced  that  several  of  the  colonel's 
staff  dropped  in  to  see  him  on  "business."  Nat- 
urally, they  were  presented  to  Miss  Summers. 
The  only  officer  of  prominence  who  did  not 
come  in  was  Lieutenant  Marston.  The  others 
all  wished  her  a  pleasant  trip  to  the  coast.  They 
understood  she  was  going  there,  they  said.  But 
no  one  intimated  that  he  knew  what  her  mis- 
sion was.  She  did  not  say  anything  about  it, 
either. 

Her  heart  was  rather  sad  as  she  walked 
across  the  closely-cut  lawn  of  the  parade 
ground,  where  the  trampling  hoofs  of  the 
horses  had  left  their  marks,  together  with  the 


52  THE  DESERTERS 

sweet  scent  that  bruised  grass  gives  forth  on 
a  mild  spring  day. 

She  was  always  depressed  when  she  started 
on  a  new  case.  This  regardless  of  her  sur- 
roundings. The  sunshine  and  verdure,  the  fly- 
ing flags  and  the  uniform  she  had  loved  from 
her  cradle,  were  inspiring.  But  in  her  bosom 
was  an  ache  that  would  not  be  stilled,  while 
conscience  seemed  to  say  reproachfully : 

"Poor  lads!  To  be  trapped  like  frightened 
wild  beasts!  And  by  a  woman!  Poor  lads!" 

Resolutely  she  beat  back  this  silent  protest. 
She  must  not  heed  anything  that  might  inter- 
fere with  the  thoroughness  of  her  work. 
Work!  Yes,  that  was  all!  Just  a  task  for 
which  she  would  be  paid  wages.  What  had 

sentiment  to  do  with  it?  And  yet Poor 

lads!  Poor  lads! 

But  there  was  nothing  sad  or  thoughtful  in 
the  appearance  of  the  young  woman  who 
walked  through  the  hotel  lobby  in  town  an  hour 
afterward.  She  had  changed  her  dainty  black- 
and-white  suit  and  spring  hat  for  a  darker  cos- 
tume, and  wore  a  close-fitting  felt  hat.  It 
would  be  more  comfortable  to  travel  in  than 


ON   THE   MARCH  53 

the  feathered  "confection"  with  which  she  had 
paralyzed  the  post. 

Miss  Summers  partook  of  luncheon  alone  in 
the  hotel  dining-room.  It  was  a  well-ordered 
meal,  made  up  of  wholesome,  satisfying  dishes, 
which  would  give  the  maximum  of  nourish- 
ment in  the  smallest  compass — the  sort  of  or- 
der a  person  accustomed  to  the  cuisine  of  hotels 
always  gives.  Madge  was  not  to  be  led  astray 
by  enticingly-named  indigestibles  on  a  decor- 
ated menu. 

Her  self-possession  and  the  fact  that  she  had 
plenty  of  money  held  off  curiosity  at  the  hotel 
as  to  her  business.  All  they  knew  was  that 
her  name  was  Miss  M.  Summers,  and  that  her 
home  was  in  Washington,  D.  C.  This  much 
the  register  told  them.  She  had  written  her 
name  and  city  in  a  firm,  legible  hand,  when  she 
arrived  in  the  morning.  In  response  to  the  al- 
most agonized  look  of  curiosity  in  the  face  of 
the  clerk,  she  had  volunteered  the  additional  in- 
formation that  her  father  had  been  Captain 
Summers,  of  the  Sixth  Cavalry,  and  that  she 
was  going  to  see  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Parsons  at 
the  army  post,  just  outside  of  the  city  limits. 


54  THE  DESERTERS 

The  clerk  had  to  be  content  with  that.  She 
told  him  no  more  when  she  returned  from  the 
post. 

She  left  the  hotel  in  time  to  catch  the  train 
for  the  West.  But  she  did  not  get  to  the  sta- 
tion half  an  hour  too  soon,  as  many  young 
ladies  traveling  alone  would  have  done.  She 
had  had  long  experience  of  railroads.  Well 
she  knew  that  while  a  train  might  be  five  min- 
utes— ten  minutes — an  hour — or  six  hours — 
late,  it  never  would  start  before  its  scheduled 
moment.  It  was  part  of  her  business-like 
method  to  economize  time  whenever  it  could 
be  done. 

As  she  settled  herself  comfortably  in  a  Pull- 
man car  for  her  three  days'  journey  over  the 
mountains  and  across  the  plains,  she  took  the 
photograph'  of  Lieutenant  Jim  Craig  from  her 
handbag  and  studied  it  closely. 

"It's  no  use,"  she  murmured.  "I  cannot  be- 
lieve this  man  would  leave  his  regiment  with- 
out some  powerful  cause.  Striking  a  superior 
officer  is  bad.  But,"  shaking  her  head  posi- 
tively, "alone,  that  is  not  enough  to  explain 
his  running  away." 

She  glanced  out  of  the  window  at  the  flying 


55 

landscape,  reddened  by  the  dying  sun.  The  in- 
terminable lines  of  fences,  the  great  squares 
of  green  where  the  wheat  and  rye  were  just 
showing  in  the  furrows,  the  tired  men  and 
horses  on  their  way  home,  and  at  the  back  of 
it  all  the  great  golden-red  ball  of  fire  sinking 
behind  the  western  hills.  All  this  came  to  her 
weeks  later,  when  she  had  time  to  recall  this 
part  of  her  journey.  Just  now  her  mental  vis- 
ion was  turned  inward,  and  what  she  seemed 
to  be  gazing  at  was  as  a  picture  thrown  upon 
a  plate  in  a  camera,  invisible  until  it  should  be 
developed  in  days  to  come. 

Most  of  the  time  on  the  train  she  was  study- 
ing the  photograph.  For  mile  after  mile  she 
looked  at  the  pictured  features  of  this  eager- 
faced  young  man.  She  admired  the  straight 
nose,  broad  forehead,  strong  chin,  and  eyes 
that  met  her  own  almost  as  if  they  were  alive. 
A  handsome  face!  That  beyond  dispute.  A 
good  face,  too,  or  Madge  Summers  was  no 
judge  of  physiognomy. 

"He  might  have  struck  his  officer.  He  is 
just  the  sort  that  would,  if  he  got  real  mad," 
she  decided.  "But  not  without  good  reason. 
No,  not  even  if  he  had  been  drinking.  I  wish 


56  THE  DESERTERS 

Colonel  Parsons  had  told  me  all  about  the  quar- 
rel. It  would  have  been  some  satisfaction. 
Not  that  it  would  have  helped  me  in  finding 
him.  The  colonel  was  right  there.  After  all, 
what  is  it  to  me  what  they  quarreled  about? 
And  yet " 

And  yet— '-she  continued  to  stare  at  the  face 
in  the  photograph  at  intervals,  all  the  way  to 
the  Golden  Gate. 

From  the  ferry  in  San  Francisco  she  drove 
to  a  certain  quiet  hotel,  where  she  was  well 
known.  Here  she  took  possession  of  two  com- 
fortable rooms  on  an  upper  floor.  They  were 
always  hers  when  she  went  there,  unless  they 
happened  to  be  occupied.  In  that  case  there 
would  be  another  suite,  almost  the  counterpart 
of  the  first,  at  her  disposal. 

Madge  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  satisfaction  as 
she  threw  open  a  window  in  the  little  sitting- 
room.  The  waters  of  San  Francisco  bay  lay 
stretched  before  her.  There  is  not  a  more 
glorious  prospect  in  the  world.  But  almost 
beneath  her  feet  were  the  sordid  wretchedness 
and  glaring  vice  of  that  most  notorious  of 
waterside  districts,  the  "Barbary  Coast."  It 
is  there  that  crime  is  the  fashion,  the  law  a 


ON   THE   MARCH  57 

joke,  and  decency  an  incentive  to  ribald  laugh- 
ter. 

Madge  knew  that  well  enough.  Then  why 
did  the  clear  gaze  of  this  pretty  girl  turn  from 
the  beautiful  perspective  of  the  harbor  to  the 
noisome  cluster  of  miserable  houses  comprised 
in"OldBarbary?" 

Well,  there  must  have  been  some  reason. 
Madge  Summers  was  going  about  her  work 
now,  and  she  always  had  a  sound  motive  for 
everything  she  did. 


CHAPTER  V 

KECONNOITERING 

AFTER  three  nights  on  a  sleeping  car,  one 
appreciates  a  bed  that  stands  still.  Miss 
Summers  was  a  healthy  young  woman 
and  could  sleep  in  a  Pullman  more  soundly 
than  most  persons.  Once  asleep,  she  stayed 
there.  She  did  not  wake  up  at  every  little  ex- 
cuse, or  no  excuse  at  all.  Never  was  she 
guilty  of  a  hysterical  scream  and  a  wild  clutch 
at  the  air  when  the  train  swung  around  a  sharp 
curve.  The  negro  porter,  slouching  along  the 
aisle,  could  lunge  into  her  curtains  a  dozen 
times  in  the  night  without  disturbing  her.  She 
was  hardened  to  these  things.  Nevertheless, 
she  was  glad  to  go  comfortably  to  bed  in  the 
quiet  hotel  when  this  evening  came. 

She  had  earned  her  rest,  too.  Not  only  by 
the  long  trip  across  the  country,  but  by  walk- 
ing and  riding  about  the  city  nearly  all  day. 
It  was  early  morning  when  the  train  got  in, 


RECONNOITERING  59 

and  she  set  to  work  at  once.  From  breakfast 
time  to  sundown  she  sought  clues  to  the  de- 
serter— Jim  Craig.  That  was  how  she  spent 
her  first  twelve  hours  in  San  Francisco. 
Strange  occupation  for  a  girl?  Well,  it  de- 
pends on  the  girl. 

Ever  since  the  death  of  her  father,  Madge 
had  lived  alone.  Her  mother  had  died  years 
before,  and  Madge  was  the  only  child.  With 
both  parents  gone,  she  had  no  very  near  rela- 
tives left.  Aunts,  uncles  and  cousins  there  were, 
it  is  true.  Several  of  them  offered  her  a  home, 
but  she  preferred  to  be  independent.  Fortu- 
nately, she  had  inherited  enough  money  to  live 
respectably,  if  frugally.  So,  in  Washington, 
where  she  had  scores  of  influential  friends — 
army  people,  mostly,  who  had  known  and  es- 
teemed her  father — she  kept  a  small  apartment, 
which  she  occupied  when  not  away  on  a  case, 
and  which  she  always  called  her  real  home. 
But  she  was  essentially  a  cosmopolite.  Sel- 
dom was  she  in  Washington  for  more  than  a 
few  weeks  at  a  time. 

On  her  second  morning  in  San  Francisco 
she  put  on  clothing  that  seemed  brutally  out 
of  keeping  with  her  own  fresh  and  modest  girl- 


60  THE  DESERTERS 

hood.  Instead  of  the  neat  black-and-white  tai- 
lor-made suit,  she  arrayed  herself  in  a  cheap, 
flimsy  pink  gown,  with  tawdry,  tinsel  trimming 
"done"  it  indeed  to  perfection.  Then  she 
built  up  her  hair  with  "rats"  and  false  curls, 
setting  it  all  off  with  a  splutter  of  imitation 
jewels — maddening  reds,  greens  and  blues, 
and  several  "diamonds." 

Madge  smiled  at  herself  in  the  mirror  when 
she  had  finished  "doing"  her  hair.  She  had 
"done"  it  indeed  to  perfection.  Then  she 
brought  forth  from  her  trunk  a  regulation 
theatrical  "make-up"  box,  and  attacked  her 
cheeks  with  a  rouge  rag  and  powder  puff.  Soon 
she  had  a  violent  bloom  that  would  look  well 
at  night,  under  artificial  lights,  but  was  sad 
enough  in  the  sunshine.  She  finished  the  as- 
sault on  her  face  by  touching  the  lips  with  car- 
mine, painting  the  eyebrows  and  blacking  the 
lashes. 

"It  looks  more  like  a  mask  than  a  real  face," 
she  remarked  to  her  reflection  in  the  glass. 
"But  it  will  be  strictly  in  fashion  at  Reilly's, 
even  in  the  daylight." 

A  large  straw  hat,  turned  up  rakishly  at  one 
side  and  garnished  with  red  roses  and  green 


RECONNOITERING  61 

feathers,  came  next  from  the  trunk,  and  Madge 
tried  the  effect  on  her  head. 

"Tough  enough  even  for  the  Barbary  Coast," 
she  murmured.  "If  Lieutenant  Craig  suspects 
me  when  he  sees  this,  then  he  must  be  blessed 
with  marvelous  penetration.  I  only  hope  he 
will  be  there.  The  sooner  I  have  finished  this 
job  the  better  I  shall  be  pleased.  This  is  the 
first  time  I  ever  felt  that  my  work  was  treach- 
erous. Always  before  it  has  seemed  that  I  was 
doing  the  right  thing.  But  now " 

The  photograph  of  Jim  Craig  lay  on  the 
dresser  before  her.  She  studied  it  in  silence 
for  several  moments. 

"I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  as  I  look  at  his 
picture  I  can't  shake  off  the  idea  that  he  is 
asking  me  how  I  can  bring  myself  to  run  him 
down,  when  he  is  trying  so  hard  to  get  away. 
It's  a  stupid  feeling.  If  he's  the  kind  of  man 
all  his  friends  at  the  post  say — a  rattling  good 
soldier  and  thoroughly  honest-hearted — he 
will  never  harbor  ill-feeling  against  me  for  do- 
ing my  duty.  Still,  I  wish  the  expression 
weren't  there.  .  .  .  Pshaw !  I'm  a  fool !" 

She  completed  her  toilet  and  ordered  her 


62  THE  DESERTERS 

breakfast  sent  to  her  room.  Then  she  took 
the  photograph  in  her  hand  and  again  perused 
it  steadily,  feature  by  feature,  line  by  line.  No 
matter  how  she  reasoned  with  herself,  she 
wished  he  did  not  look  at  her  so. 

Madge  went  out  after  breakfast.  But  she 
did  not  ride  this  time.  With  the  flashy  hat 
on  her  built-up  hair  and  a  cloak  over  her  pink 
dress,  she  sauntered  about  the  city  in  an  ap- 
parently aimless  fashion,  chatting  with  any- 
body who  chose  to  address  her,  but  always  tak- 
ing good  care  of  herself  in  any  little  banter- 
ing passage-at-arms  that  came  her  way.  The 
brogue  she  adopted  lent  a  pungency  of  its  own 
to  her  repartee.  Her  pretty  face — attractive  in 
spite  of  the  rouge  and  vulgar  costume — made 
it  easy  for  her  to  "pump"  any  one  she  pleased. 
By  the  time  the  sun  went  down  she  had  added 
much  valuable  information  to  that  gained  the 
day  before.  And  it  concerned  the  man  she  was 
after. 

She  was  glad  to  get  to  her  rooms  in  the  late 
afternoon  for  a  rest.  A  pleasant,  motherly 
woman  was  with  her.  This  was  Mrs.  Billings, 
housekeeper  of  the  hotel,  and  an  old  friend  of 
Madge's.  She  knew  the  girl's  profession. 


RECONNOITERING  63 

Therefore  she  understood  the  purpose  of  her 
many  disguises,  and  was  always  ready  to  help 
her  slip  in  and  out  by  a  side  door. 

"You  think  you  know  where  to  find  this 
soldier  you  want,  do  you,  Miss  Summers?"  she 
asked,  as  she  and  Madge  sat  down  to  dinner 
together. 

"Yes.  I  found  out  yesterday  that  a  man 
answering  to  his  general  description  was  in 
the  habit  of  dropping  into  Reilly's  place,  on  the 
'Barbary  Coast/  two  or  three  evenings  a  week. 
So  I  went  to  see  Reilly,  and  got  an  engagement 
to  sing  there." 

Mrs.  Billings  raised  her  two  hands  in  ad- 
miration, at  the  same  time  shaking  her  head 
dubiously. 

"It's  wonderful  how  much  pluck  you  have, 
dearie.  But  you  always  come  through  safely. 
I  don't  know  how  you  do  it.  This  Reilly's 
saloon  has  a  very  bad  name.  Aren't  you  afraid 
to  go  there  alone?" 

"Not  at  all,"  laughed  Madge.  "Nobody  will 
hurt  me.  Reilly  wouldn't  let  them,  anyhow. 
He  has  known  me  for  two  years,  and  he  does 
me  the  honor  to  regard  me  as  a  'star'  per- 
former. I  have  sung  for  him  before,  and  my 


64  THE   DESERTERS 

songs  seem  to  suit  the  taste  of  his  customers. 
So  he  was  glad  enough  when  I  promised  to- 
day that  I  would  sing  all  this  week.  I  don't 
think  I  shall  have  to  stay  longer  than  that." 

"You  mean  that  you  think  you  will  catch 
your  deserter  in  that  time?" 

"I  think  so'." 

"Well,  I  am  glad  for  your  sake,  because  I 
know  how  anxious  you  always  are  to  finish 
up.  But  I  was  hoping  you  might  stay  with  us 
longer.  When  you  get  him,  I  suppose  you  will 
have  to  see  him  safely  returned  to  his  regi- 
ment, back  in  Kansas." 

"That's  the  rule,  Mrs.  Billings,"  returned 
Madge.  "But  there  are  peculiar  circumstances 
attending  this  case.  They  may  keep  me  here 
some  time.'  I  have  to  be  perfectly  sure  I  am 
right  before  taking  decided  action." 

"Don't  you  have  to  do  that  always?" 

"Yes,  to  a  certain  extent.  But  this  is  dif- 
ferent. However,  I  don't  know  much  about 
it  yet,  and  in  the  meantime  we'll  enjoy  our 
dinner.  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  up 
here  and  have  it  with  me.  I'm  a  stranger  in 
San  Francisco  but  for  you." 

"No  one  would  thinK  it  when  they  see  you 


RECONNOITERING  65 

going  around  the  city,"  smiled  the  housekeeper. 
"You  seem  to  know  everybody." 

"That's  only  professionally.  The  people  I 
speak  to  call  me  'Madge.'  They  have  never 
heard  of  Miss  Summers,  or,  if  they  have,  they 
don't  associate  me  with  her.  What  would  be- 
come of  my  usefulness  as  a  detective  if  they 
did?" 

"I  see.  'Madge'  has  hundreds  of  acquaint- 
ances, but  Miss  Summers  is  entirely  without 
friends." 

Madge  reached  across  the  little  table  to 
touch  the  housekeeper  affectionately  on  the 
arm. 

"No,  Mrs.  Billings.  I  am  not  without 
friends  so  long  as  I  have  you.  And  I  don't 
want  any  others." 

"Well,  perhaps  so — at  present.  But  sooner 
or  later  a  young  man  will  come  along — on 
horseback,  most  likely,  for  I  am  sure  he  will 
be  a  soldier  and  a  cavalryman — and  he  will  be 
the  very  best  friend  you  can  have.  Depend 
upon  it,  Madge,  a  sweetheart,  honest  and  true, 
is  better  than  all  the  woman  friends  in  crea- 
tion. You'll  find  that  out.  At  least,  I  hope 
so." 


66  THE  DESERTERS 

"Thank  you  for  your  good  wishes,  dear," 
laughed  Madge.  "But  I  have  no  idea  of  such 
a  man,  either  on  horseback  or  afoot.  Even  if 
such  a  one  came,  I  am  afraid  I  should  be  too 
busy  to  receive  him  with  the  graciousness  he 
might  think  he  deserved/' 

The  housekeeper  did  not  reply.  But  there 
was  a  knowing  smile  on  her  lips.  She  had 
heard  girls  talk  in  this  way  before.  True, 
Madge  Summers  was  different  from  many  that 
she  had  known,  in  that  her  life  seemed  to  have 
a  deeper,  sterner  purpose  than  actuates  most 
young  women  of  her  age.  Still,  she  was  a 
girl,  after  all,  and,  as  such,  to  be  won  by  the 
man  who  could  do  it. 

The  dinner  was  finished  soon,  and  Madge 
prepared  to  go  out.  Mrs.  Billings  raised  her 
eyebrows  deprecatingly. 

"I  wish  I  could  go  with  you,"  she  said.  "You 
are  too  pretty,  even  with  all  that  paint  on  your 
face,  to  brave  Reilly's  by  yourself.  You  ought 
to  have  a  mother  with  you." 

Something  that  might  have  been  a  tear 
trembled  in  Madge's  eyes  for  an  instant.  But 
she  winked  hard  and  drove  it  away,  as  she 
replied,  with  a  light  laugh : 


RECONNOITERING  67 

"Mrs.  Billings,  aren't  you  ashamed  of  your- 
self to  suggest  such  a  thing?  As  if  I  would 
take  my  mother  into  a  place  like  Reilly's.  I 
mean,  if  I  had  a  mother.  Why,  it  would  be 
undutiful  and  disgraceful,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  trouble  I  should  have — looking  after  her." 

"Yes.  I  suppose  so,"  returned  the  house- 
keeper, with  a  sigh.  "But  I  wish  you  didn't 
have  to  go,  dear." 

"Don't  worry,  Mrs.  Billings.  It's  all  busi- 
ness. And  no  one  knows  that  better  than 
Reilly." 

The  two  went  downstairs  together — for 
Madge  seldom  used  the  elevator.  At  the  side 
door  to  the  street  they  parted. 

Ten  minutes  later  Reilly  roared  a  boister- 
ous welcome  to  Madge  as  she  entered  the  low- 
ceiled,  long  room — a  bar  at  one  end  and  a  piano 
at  the  other — where  she  had  been  engaged  to 
sing  every  night  for  a  week. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON   ACTIVE  SERVICE 

IF  Mrs.  Billings  had  gone  into  Reilly's  with 
Madge,  she  would  have  been  confirmed  in 
her  opinion  that  it  was  not  an  eligible  en- 
vironment for  a  respectable  young  woman. 

Although,  thus  early  in  the  evening,  the 
combination  of  groggery  and  concert  hall  was 
staid  and  quiet  compared  with  what  it  would 
be  a  few  hours  later,  there  was  a  decollete 
blatancy  both  in  place  and  people  which  would 
have  shocked  the  good  housekeeper.  It  in- 
volved much  drinking,  more  noise,  and  some 
piano  music.  A  good  half  of  the  company 
were  girls  and  women.  They  were  always  the 
most  saddening  element  at  Reilly's.  Their  loud 
dress,  "fake"  jewelry,  and  brazen  gaiety  pro- 
claimed them  really  of  the  class  to  which 
Madge  Summers  only  pretended  to  belong. 

In  one  party  of  four,  at  a  small  table,  mak- 
ing more  racket  than  any  of  the  others,  were 

68 


ON  ACTIVE   SERVICE  69 

two  sailors  who  had  just  been  paid  off  at  the 
end  of  a  long  voyage  on  a  "wind-jammer"  in 
the  South  American  trade.  With  them  were 
two  young  women.  The  life  was  telling  on 
these  girls.  They  looked  as  if  they  might  have 
been  in  their  thirties ;  neither  had  seen  a  twen- 
tieth birthday. 

In  a  corner  near  the  piano  crouched  one  of 
those  sodden  creatures  whom  one  always  asso- 
ciates with  an  atmosphere  of  stale  beer.  The 
thing  had  been  a  man  once.  Now  he  was  a 
pitiful,  shrinking  animal,  watching  furtively 
for  any  free  drinks  that  might  come  his  way. 
He  was  an  institution  at  Reilly's.  He  earned 
the  little  food  he  required  by  helping  to  sweep 
out,  cleaning  foul  utensils  and  doing  other 
menial  work  too  unpleasant  for  the  Chinese 
porter.  In  consideration  of  these  tasks,  he  was 
permitted  to  doze  in  the  saloon  through  the 
evenings  until  closing  time.  He  had  no  other 
home. 

Madge  shuddered  as  her  eye  fell  upon  this 
wastrel.  She  decided  that  he  had  been  not  bad- 
looking  once.  Simultaneously  she  thought  of 
the  handsome  young  soldier  whose  photograph 
she  carried  in  her  bosom.  He  was  disposed  to 


70  THE  DESERTERS 

drink  unwisely.  Could  it  be  that  ever  he  would 
come  to  look  like  this  wretched  being  cowering 
behind  the  piano  ? 

Not  if  he  were  taken  back  to  his  regiment. 
There,  among  his  comrades  and  with  the 
healthful  demands  of  his  duties  as  a  soldier 
upon  him,  he  must  always  maintain  a  certain 
standard.  He  would,  she  knew.  Officers  might 
drink  sometimes.  But  only  sometimes,  and  al- 
ways they  were  restrained  by  the  knowledge 
that  the  honor  of  the  corps  was  in  their  hands. 
No;  this  young  lieutenant,  Jim  Craig,  was  in 
danger,  but  he  could  be  saved,  and  his  reclama- 
tion was  in  her  hands. 

Madge  felt  an  uplift  in  her  soul  as  she  came 
to  this  conclusion.  She  could  not  have  ex- 
plained why.  There  was  no  logical  reason 
why  she  should  be  more  interested  in  this  de- 
serter than  she  had  been  in  many  others.  Well, 
if  not,  there  must  have  been  an  illogical  one, 
for  the  added  interest  certainly  was  there. 

Dan  Reilly  was  a  square-built,  red-faced 
man,  with  a  fighting  jaw  and  huge  hands. 
These  last  were  necessary  for  the  successful 
conduct  of  his  business.  When  any  of  his 
guests  became  obstreperous,  Reilly  could — and 


ON   ACTIVE   SERVICE  71 

often  did — lift  them  bodily  and  throw  them 
into  the  street.  He  had  been  known  to  take 
a  fighting  "drunk"  in  each  hand,  and  carry 
them  both  out,  squirming  and  swearing,  to- 
gether. Seldom  had  he  occasion  to  strike  with 
his  fists.  And  for  a  very  good  reason.  He  had 
been  a  professional  pugilist  and  wrestler  in  his 
time,  and  a  man  must  be  either  very  bold,  or 
extremely  drunk,  or  both,  to  offer  serious  re- 
sistance when  Reilly  decided  to  eject  him. 

rt  You're  here  in  good  time,  Madge,"  he  said, 
grinning  at  her  across  the  bar.  "There  won't 
be  much  doin'  for  an  hour  or  two,  but  you 
might  spiel  us  a  song.  It  will  liven  things 
up/' 

"All  right,  Dan.  That's  what  I'm  here  for." 
She  swaggered  down  the  room,  exchanging 
jesting  remarks  with  the  people  seated  at  the 
tables.  Her  brogue  was  much  in  evidence,  and 
she  smiled  with  a  flippant  good-humor  that  is 
always  popular  in  such  places  as  Reilly's.  But 
she  was  not  so  careless  as  she  seemed.  There 
was  not  a  man  to  whom  she  flung  a  laughing 
word  that  she  did  not  scrutinize  from  head  to 
foot.  In  one  flash  she  took  in  every  feature, 
every  detail  of  his  size,  build  and  weight,  from 


72  THE  DESERTERS 

the  top  of  his  greasy  old  hat  to  the  soles  of  his 
worn  shoes.  She  did  not  trouble  much  about 
the  women.  Nevertheless,  she  could  have 
given  a  description  of  any  of  them  a  month 
afterward  accurate  enough  to  please  the  police. 
A  passing  glance  did  that. 

"Well,  he's  not  here  yet,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, as  she  gave  the  starved-looking  man  at 
the  piano  a  friendly  thump  on  the  back.  "Hel- 
lo, Scroggs,  old  pard!  How's  it  been  going 
with  you  since  I  seen  you  last?" 

Scroggs'  thin,  pale  face  cracked  into  a 
mournful  smile  as  he  looked  up.  He  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  ragtime  two-step,  and  could  not 
stop.  Most  of  the  men  and  some  of  the  women 
were  beating  time  with  feet  and  fingers.  They 
would  have  resented  a  break  in  their  aesthetic 
enjoyment. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Madge,"  he  piped, 
through  the  music.  "Where  have  you  been  all 
this  time?" 

"Tearing  things  up  in  the  East,"  she  an- 
swered, with  a  shrug.  "But  I  can't  keep  away 
from  good  old  San  Fran  for  long  at  a  time.  I 
see  there's  about  the  same  old  crowd  here,  ex- 
cept for  the  men  from  the  ships." 


ON  ACTIVE  SERVICE  73 

"Yes,  but  there'll  be  others  later  in  the  even- 
ing. There's  lots  of  strangers  every  night. 
Sailors,  soldiers " 

"Many  soldiers?"  interrupted  Madge. 

"Quite  a  few.  They  come  in  from  the  fort 
whenever  they  get  leave.  There'll  be  a  bunch 
of  'em  to-night,  no  doubt." 

"Not  many  strange  soldiers,  I  suppose?" 

"Sure  not !"  replied  Scroggs.  "Where  would 
they  come  from  ?" 

"That's  so.    Where  would  they  come  from  ?" 

"Go  ahead  there,  Madge,"  roared  Reilly, 
from  the  back  of  the  bar.  "Sing  something!" 

"All  right,  Dan!"  she  flung  back.  "Don't 
get  excited.  It  might  turn  your  hair  red." 

As  Reilly's  hair  was  of  a  decidedly  sunset 
hue,  this  sally  Brought  forth  a  yell  of  laughter, 
and  one  of  the  girls  with  the  sailors  shouted: 

"The  drinks  are  on  you,  Mr.  Reilly." 

"Don't  get  fresh  there,  you!"  growled 
Reilly.  "Or  I'm  li'ble  to " 

Scroggs  thumped  loudly  on  the  piano  and 
drowned  out  the  threat,  whatever  it  was.  He 
often  prevented  trouble  by  this  trick.  It  is  not 
easy  for  people  to  quarrel  while  somebody  is 
hammering  out  fortissimo  chords  on  a  full- 


74  THE  DESERTERS 

grown  piano.  Scroggs  did  not  stop  till  Madge 
shouted  in  his  ear : 

"That'll  do,  Scroggs.  I'll  give  them  'Dream- 
ing of  My  Happy,  Happy  Home !' ' 

Scroggs  deftly  rippled  over  the  prelude,  and 
Madge  began  to  sing.  The  "happy  home"  af- 
fair was  one  of  those  tearful  domestic  ballads 
that  are  always  favorites  with  people  who 
might  be  supposed  to  have  outlived  all  senti- 
ment. There  was  absolute  silence  as  Madge 
sang  two  verses  in  her  rich,  full  voice.  The 
words  were  set  to  a  melody  that  seemed  to  have 
been  composed  by  the  yard,  and  then  cut  off  in 
lengths  to  fit  the  verses. 

But  words  and  music  both  affected  the  audi- 
ence. Before  Madge  had  finished,  the  two 
girls  with  the  sailors  were  weeping  into  their 
beer,  the  other  women  were  all  more  or  less 
subdued,  while  the  men  coughed  and  swore 
softly  to  relieve  their  feelings.  The  homeless 
waif  behind  the  piano  had  fallen  asleep. 

"Now  whoop  up  something  lively,  Madge," 
bellowed  Reilly,  as  the  applause  died  down. 

"I  will  in  a  minute,"  returned  Madge.  "But 
I  want  a  little  rest  between  songs.  We  opera 
singers  have  to  be  careful  of  our  voices." 


ON   ACTIVE   SERVICE  75 

"Sure!"  assented  a  tough-looking  fellow 
who  had  been  particularly  loud  in  his  applause. 
"Have  a  drink,  Madge." 

"Not  just  now,  thanks." 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  that,"  broke  in  one  of 
the  sailors.  "Come  on !  Join  us  in  a  ball,  won't 
you  ?  Sit  down  here  until  you're  ready  to  sing 
again.  Hey,  Reilly!  Madge  wants  a  drink." 

"I  told  you  no,"  she  interposed  firmly.  "I'm 
not  thirsty." 

Reilly  frowned.  He  came  from  behind  the 
bar  and  walked  down  the  room  to  Madge. 

"Look  here,  my  girl,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 
"Your  singing  is  all  right " 

"Then  that's  all,"  she  interrupted.  "My 
singing  is  what  you  pay  me  for,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Not  altogether,"  he  growled.  "I  expect 
my  people  to  help  trade  when  they  can.  When 
a  man  asks  you  to  drink,  take  him  up.  Under- 
stand?" 

There  was  a  dangerous  glint  in  her  eyes,  as 
she  replied  steadily: 

"No,  I  do  not  understand." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  straight,  so  that  you 
will.  My  business  here  is  to  sell  booze.  It 
isn't  giving  me  a  square  deal  when  you  dis- 


76  THE  DESERTERS 

courage  a  man  from  spending  money.  I  like 
you,  and  I  know  you  are  not  the  kind  that — 
that — these  others  are,"  with  a  sweep  of  his 
hand  to  take  in  the  whole  room.  "But  that 
doesn't  excuse  you  for  spoiling  trade." 

"My  singing  brings  business.  You've  told 
me  so  many  times." 

"I'm  not  talking  about  your  singing,"  was 
his  impatient  rejoinder. 

"Well,  /  am.  Now  let  me  alone,  or  I'll  walk 
right  out  and  never  come  back." 

"Don't  do  that !"  begged  Reilly,  his  bullying 
tone  suddenly  changed  to  a  whine.  "I've  told 
everybody  you'll  sing  here  all  the  week.  You 
wouldn't  want  me  to  disappoint  my  customers, 
would  you  ?  There'll  be  a  big  crowd  to-night." 

"You  heard  what  I  said." 

She  turned  away  and  moved  over  to  the 
piano.  Reilly  looked  at  her  in  uncertainty 
for  a  moment.  He  was  not  accustomed  to 
being  snubbed  in  his  own  place.  Then,  as 
Madge  took  no  further  notice  of  him,  he  went 
back  to  the  bar  and  found  fault  with  a  bar- 
tender for  not  washing  a  glass  properly. 

Reilly  did  not  interfere  with  Madge  any 
more  that  evening.  She  trolled  forth  songs  at 


ON   ACTIVE   SERVICE  77 

intervals  until  past  midnight.  Then  she  calmly 
announced  that  she  would  give  one  more  and 
quit. 

This  was  taking  a  liberty  that  no  hired 
singer  in  Reilly's  had  ever  ventured  on  in  the 
history  of  the  place.  The  proprietor  opened 
his  eyes  wide  and  was  about  to  protest.  He 
met  the  gaze  of  Madge  as  she  took  her  place 
on  the  platform  by  the  side  of  the  piano,  and — 
changed  his  mind. 

Only,  when  Madge  had  finished  the  song, 
and  after  she  had  acknowledged  the  applause 
and  declined  several  invitations  to  drink,  he 
beckoned  her  over  to  the  bar. 

"Say,  Madge/'  he  said  quietly.  "What  kind 
of  game  is  this?  The  evening  ain't  over  yet. 
Not  by  a  jugful.  I  keep  the  doors  open  till  one 
o'clock,  and  things  are  running  long  after  that 
usually.  Yet  you  say  you're  going  to  beat  it 
at  twelve,  and,  what's  more,  you  do  beat  it." 

"Well?" 

There  was  no  compromise  in  her  tone.  Reilly 
passed  one  of  his  hamlike  hands  across  his 
mouth.  Then,  with  a  forced  grin : 

"Nothing,  if  you  want  to  do  it.  But  you'll 
come  to-morrow  night,  I  suppose?" 


78  THE   DESERTERS 

"Of  course  I  will.  I  always  keep  my  con- 
tracts. You  know  that.  Good  night." 

Once  outside,  she  walked  only  a  few  yards 
before  she  stopped  and  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"How  sweet  it  is,  after  that  poisoned  air!" 
she  murmured.  "How  I  loathe  this  life  of 
mine  sometimes!  To  go  into  that  filthy  place 
every  night  and  mix  with  those  horrible  people, 
just  to  make  a  prisoner  of  a  man  whom  I  have 
never  seen.  Perhaps  I  shall  hate  him  when  I 
do  see  him!  What  nonsense  that  is.  As  if 
my  hating  or  liking  him  had  anything  to  do 
with  it !  He  will  be  like  all  the  others.  I  shall 
pity  him — and  hold  him  tight  when  once  I  get 
my  hands  on  him." 

But  when  she  reached  her  little  sitting-room 
at  the  hotel  she  took  out  Jim  Craig's  photo- 
graph and  studied  it  for  an  hour  before  she 
went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   SKIRMISH 

ALTHOUGH  Madge  was  not  required  to 
be  at  Reilly's  until  eight  o'clock  at 
night,  she  was  not  idle  until  that  hour. 

There  was  plenty  for  her  to  do  in  the  day- 
time. 

In  the  two  days  she  had  already  spent  in 
traveling  about  the  city,  she  learned  that  a  man 
whom  she  believed  to  be  Jim  Craig  was  in  the 
habit  of  spending  his  evenings  at  Reilly's.  This 
information  had  come  to  her  piecemeal.  An 
item  here,  a  scrap  there,  and  a  bit  of  personal 
description  somewhere  else.  Skillfully  she  had 
fitted  the  fragments  to  each  other,  until  she 
had  a  fine  picture  of  the  man  she  wanted,  to- 
gether with  a  chart  of  his  daily  doings  for  the 
past  month. 

She  had  not  learned  all  she  wanted  to  know, 
however.  There  were  gaps  in  the  structure 
she  had  built  up.  No  one  could  tell  her  where 

79 


8o  THE  DESERTERS 

Jim  Craig  (if  it  was  he)  lived.  He  appeared 
at  Reilly's  nearly  every  evening,  it  was  said, 
and  generally  stayed  till  past  midnight.  He 
had  been  noticeable  because  he  hardly  ever 
spoke  to  anybody,  but  just  sat  at  a  table,  drink- 
ing. When  he  was  ready  to  go  he  said  "Good 
night"  to  Scroggs,  the  pianist,  and  staggered 
out.  Madge's  informants  all  agreed  that  he 
never  left  Reilly's  sober.  His  name  was  un- 
derstood to  be  Jim. 

As  Madge  sat  over  her  solitary  breakfast 
the  next  morning,  she  wondered  why  he  had 
not  been  at  Reilly's  the  night  before.  Could 
she  have  been  unlucky  enough  to  come  just  too 
late?  Had  he  left  San  Francisco  on  the  day 
that  she  arrived?  If  so,  she  would  have  to 
take  up  a  new  trail.  In  any  case,  she  must  go 
about  the  city  and  see  what  she  could  learn. 
The  successful  detective  must  be  indefatigable. 

But  when  she  appeared  at  Reilly's  at  sun- 
down, there  was  nothing  in  her  demeanor  or 
appearance  to  suggest  that  she  had  been  work- 
ing hard  all  day.  She  laughed,  joked  and  sang 
as  energetically  as  on  the  previous  night.  The 
proprietor  was  delighted.  He  did  the  largest 
business  his  place  had  seen  for  months.  Madge 


A   SKIRMISH  81 

was  a  big  drawing  card,  and  he  did  not  ven- 
ture to  hint  to  her  again  that  she  should  help 
trade  by  drinking.  Reilly  was  shrewd.  He 
knew  when  to  let  well  enough  alone. 

Madge  was  not  satisfied,  however.  Jim 
Craig  had  not  come  in.  Yet  he  was  still  in 
the  city.  She  had  assured  herself  of  that  dur- 
ing the  day.  Why  he  had  abandoned  his  fa- 
vorite evening  resort  she  could  not  conjecture. 
It  could  not  be  because  she  was  there.  He  did 
not  know  her,  and  Madge  was  sure  no  one 
about  the  place,  from  the  proprietor  down,  sus- 
pected that  she  was  a  detective. 

For  three  nights  Madge  sang  at  Reilly's, 
and  still  "Jim"  did  not  come.  In  her  strolls 
about  the  streets  and  into  places  of  the  Reilly 
kind  during  each  day,  she  heard  of  him  now 
and  then.  But  she  never  caught  up  with  him. 

This  "Jim"  was  a  marked  man  in  a  way.  His 
manners  and  speech  were  not  those  of  the  un- 
derworld, although  he  chose  to  tread  its  paths. 
A  few  of  the  men  and  women  who  habitually 
slink  through  city  shadows,  making  their  liv- 
ing in  heaven  knows  what  evil  ways,  had 
dubbed  him  "Gentleman  Jim."  But  not  to  his 
face.  Madge  heard  that  he  had  thrashed  one 


82  THE  DESERTERS 

exuberant  individual — a  pickpocket  and  "sec- 
ond-story man"  by  profession — who  had  pre- 
sumed to  address  him  thus  in  a  public  place. 

He  had  told  the  pickpocket  afterward,  over 
a  conciliatory  drink,  that  he  would  not  "stand 
for"  any  "frills"  on  his  name.  If  people 
wanted  to  call  him  "Jim,"  he  had  no  objection. 
But  he  was  no  more  a  "gentleman"  than  the 
rest  of  them,  and  no  man  who  wanted  to  be  "in 
right"  with  him  would  say  he  was. 

"Everything  I  hear  about  this  'Jim'  makes 
me  believe  he  is  my  man,"  Madge  was  saying 
to  herself  as  she  prepared  to  leave  the  hotel  on 
the  fourth  evening.  "Why  he  doesn't  come 
to  Reilly's,  when  he  has  been  so  regular  up  till 
this  week,  I  can't  imagine.  But,  so  long  as 
he  is  in  the  city,  it  is  pretty  certain  he  will  be 
there  eventually.  If  not,  I  may  run  against 
him  in  the  daytime.  There's  only  a  faint 
chance  of  that,  however.  It  isn't  often  he  is 
seen  about  the  streets." 

As  she  entered  Reilly's  on  this  fourth  night, 
the  sordidity  of  it  all  depressed  her.  She  won- 
dered how  men  could  hang  about  there  regu- 
larly and  seem  to  like  it.  They  did  not  come 


A   SKIRMISH  83 

for  business,  either.  It  is  true  they  were  ready 
to  "turn  a  trick"  if  occasion  should  arise.  But 
if  there  were  no  "mark"  to  be  "trimmed,"  why, 
they  were  content  to  spend  the  evening  without 
pecuniary  profit,  and  refer  to  it  afterward  as  a 
"good  time."  The  women?  Well,  Reilly's 
was  a  good  stamping-ground  for  them. 

"Yes,"  muttered  Madge.  "It's  in  these  foul 
places  they  find  their  customers.  Poor  crea- 
tures! No  wonder  their  average  lifetime  in 
this  kind  of  thing  is  less  than  five  years !" 

It  was  not  Madge's  nature  to  look  at  the 
shadowy  side  of  things  for  long,  however.  By 
the  time  she  had  reached  the  piano  and  greeted 
Scroggs  with  her  usual  slap  on  the  back,  she 
was  as  gay  as  even  Dan  Reilly  could  desire. 
From  the  platform,  some  eight  inches  above 
the  floor,  she  glanced  about  the  room.  She 
always  did  that  as  soon  as  she  arrived. 

"He  isn't  here,"  she  thought.  "Well,  he 
must  come  at  some  time  or  other." 

Scroggs  played  the  prelude  to  a  stupid,  but 
tuneful,  ditty,  that  was  popular  just  then,  be- 
ginning with  "Oh,  Mr.  Bluebeard,  I'm  terribly 
stuck  on  you,"  and  looked  up  at  her.  She 


84  THE  DESERTERS 

nodded  and  swung  off  into  the  song  recklessly. 
Reilly  threw  her  a  kiss  from  his  place  behind 
the  bar. 

At  the  end,  when  the  thumps  and  howls  of 
appreciation  had  died  away,  the  thin  voice  of  a 
pale-faced,  hollow-eyed  girl  at  a  table  near  the 
piano  reached  Madge : 

"Where's  little  Dutchy  to-night,  Reddy?" 

She  was  speaking  to  a  stocky  young  man, 
with  a  cap  pulled  over  his  eyes,  who  sat  with 
her.  He  replied  casually : 

"Dutchy?  Oh,  he  won't  be  here.  He's 
pinched." 

"What  for?" 

"Caught  with  the  goods.  Then  he  stuck  a 
cop  in  the  neck,  trying  to  make  his  get-away. 
The  cop  just  rolled  over  and  passed  out  right 
there." 

"Killed  him?"  put  in  Madge. 

Reddy  looked  at  her  in  pained  surprise  that 
she  should  ask  so  absurd  a  question. 

"Killed  him?  Sure  he  killed  him.  There 
can't  be  no  alibi  nor  nothin'  like  that  for 
Dutchy,  neither.  It's  dead  open  and  shut,  and 
he'll  get  first  degree  at  the  trial,  without  no 
chance  of  appeal  nor  nothin'." 


A   SKIRMISH  85 

"That's  terrible,"  said  Madge.  "Do  you 
suppose  they'll  hang  him  ?  That  boy  ?" 

"Bet  your  life  they  will!  What  else  can 
they  do?  And  it  was  a  pal  squealed  on  him, 
too." 

"A  pal  ?    Some  one  he  trusted  ?" 

"Sure!  If  that  guy  hadn'  told  the  cop 
where  Dutchy  was  and  what  he  was  doing, 
there  wouldn't  have  been  no  scrap,  and  the 
cop'd  be  alive  to-night." 

"And  a  cowardly  sneak  has  brought  his  pal 
to  the  gallows!"  said  Madge  slowly.  "Why, 
I  wouldn't  have  the  death  of  a  man  on  my  soul 
if  he'd  committed  a  dozen  murders.  No  mat- 
ter what  the  law  might  say,  if  I  knew  where  a 
man  who  had  killed  another  was  hiding,  I'd 
help  him  to  get  away.  I  would,  by  all  that's 
holy.  They  might  do  what  they  liked  to  me 
afterward." 

Reddy  got  up  from  the  table,  stuck  his  cap  a 
little  more  over  one  eye,  and  swaggered  to  the 
platform.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Madge. 

"Say,  Madge,  I  want  to  shake.  Get  that? 
And  I  want  to  do  it  because  you're — you're — 
white!" 

Reddy — his     specialty    was     "strong-arm" 


86  THE  DESERTERS 

work — took  Madge's  hand,  which  she  put  out 
to  him,  and  gripped  it  hard.  Then  he  re- 
peated his  conviction,  "You're  white,  Madge," 
and  went  back  to  his  table  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  was  rather  proud  of  himself  and  his 
sentiments. 

"What  about  the  'Suwanee  River,'  Madge?" 
suggested  Scroggs,  in  a  business-like  tone. 

He  played  the  opening  strains  and  Madge 
began  to  sing.  It  was  a  song  she  loved,  and 
she  threw  into  Foster's  touching  melody  all 
the  expression  that  her  voice  would  yield. 

As  was  so  generally  the  case  when  she  gave 
anything  tender,  there  was  not  a  sound  in  the 
room  except  her  sweet,  clear  tones  and  the  soft 
piano  accompaniment.  Scroggs  took  a  mu- 
sician's delight  in  the  ballad,  and  his  playing 
was  in  thorough  harmony  with  the  vocalist. 

The  second  stanza  had  just  begun,  when  the 
music  was  drowned  in  a  loud  noise  in  the 
street. 

It  was  a  disturbance  such  as  is  not  uncom- 
mon on  the  "Barbary  Coast."  Vile  language 
— shouted,  roared,  and  shrieked  up  and  down 
the  gamut  of  angry  excitement,  by  women,  as 
well  as  men.  The  thud  and  slap  of  blows,  the 


A   SKIRMISH  87 

scuffling  of  many  feet,  and  through  it  all  the 
inarticulate  howling  of  a  mob  brutalized  by  a 
strife  in  which  all  regard  for  fair  play  was 
lost  in  the  wild  desire  to  rend,  tear,  and  kill. 

The  commotion  increased  as  the  participants 
came  nearer.  At  last,  with  a  bang,  the  two 
wicker  half-doors  of  the  saloon  flew  open,  and 
a  big  hulking  fellow,  with  a  black  mustache, 
and  wearing  a  rough  blue  flannel  shirt  and 
brown  overalls,  tumbled  in  head  first  and 
sprawled  on  the  floor.  As  the  spring  doors 
slammed  shut,  he  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  ran 
to  the  bar. 

What  had  caused  the  big  fellow  to  dive  into 
Reilly's  was  soon  revealed.  A  well-built  young 
man,  rather  poorly  dressed,  but  who  did  not 
look  like  a  laborer,  dashed  the  doors  open  and 
tried  to  hurl  himself  upon  the  giant  in  the 
brown  overalls. 

Dan  Reilly  was  too  quick  for  him,  however. 
Accustomed  to  sudden  outbreaks  of  this  nature, 
he  seized  the  pursuer  and  held  him  back,  fum- 
ing and  raging. 

Everybody  in  the  room  rushed  forward.  If 
there  was  anything  the  regular  patrons  of 
Reilly's  did  enjoy,  it  was  a  smashing  good 


88  THE   DESERTERS 

fight.  It  mattered  little  what  might  be  the 
casus  belli.  The  thing  to  them  was  the  battle 
itself — the  swift  interchange  of  blows  and 
kicks;  the  splendid  ferocity  of  a  "rough-and- 
tumble,"  in  which  "everything  goes,  with  no 
holts  barred." 

If  Reilly  had  not  taken  such  prompt  meas- 
ures to  halt  the  engagement,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  tall  teamster — for  that  is  what  he 
proved  to  be — would  have  been  knocked  down 
again.  The  young  man  tried  hard  to  break 
away  from  those  holding  him  back,  as  he 
shouted : 

"Let  me  get  at  that  big  brute !  Take  your 
hands  off  me,  I  tell  you!  By  heaven,  I'll  kill 
him!" 

"What  did  he  do?" 

It  was  Madge  asking  this  question.  With 
the  others,  she  had  forced  her  way  into  the 
thick  of  the  trouble. 

"Do?  Why  he  kicked  his  horse  as  hard  as 
he  could!  That's  what  he  did!  Kicked  him 
underneath,  with  his  heavy  boot.  The  horse 
almost  doubled  up  with  the  pain.  Let  go  of  me ! 
I'll  give  him  more  than  he  gave  the  horse.  I 
will,  by " 


A   SKIRMISH  89 

"Drop  it!"  ordered  Reilly.  "Shut  up,  will 
you?  I  won't  have  no  fighting  here  to-night. 
Do  you  want  to  get  pinched?  Simmer  down, 
I  tell  you." 

Reilly  expressed  himself  with  rather  more 
than  ordinary  feeling.  He  had  been  fined 
fifty  dollars  only  the  week  before  on  account 
of  a  brawl,  which,  beginning  in  his  place  and 
boiling  over  into  the  street,  had  swelled  into  a 
riot.  Not  only  had  a  fine  been  imposed,  but 
the  magistrate  had  threatened  to  have  his  sa- 
loon and  concert  license  taken  away  the  next 
time.  That  was  what  frightened  Reilly.  Oth- 
erwise he  would  not  have  cared  if  the  team- 
ster, or  his  assailant,  or  both,  had  been  killed. 
But  to  lose  his  license!  That  was  an  awful 
possibility. 

"Here,  now!  What's  all  this!"  suddenly 
broke  in  a  loud,  official  voice. 

It  was  Mulligan,  the  policeman  on  the  beat. 
As  he  ran  in,  he  caught  the  belligerent  young 
man  by  the  elbow,  swinging  him  half  around. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  proprietor  for  an  ex- 
planation. 

"It's  all  right,  Mulligan,"  said  Reilly 
quickly.  "Just  a  little  misunderstanding." 


90  THE  DESERTERS 

"Misunderstanding  nothing!"  yelled  the 
young  man,  struggling  to  free  himself  from 
Reilly  on  one  side  and  the  policeman  on  the 
other.  "I  gave  that  fellow  part  of  what  he 
deserved,  and  he'll  get  the  rest  as  soon  as  I 
can  get  near  him.  I'll  go  to  'mill'  for  the  sake 
of  another  crack  at  him." 

"Be  jabers!  That's  where  ye  will  go  if 
ye  don't  be  quitting  yer  foolishness,"  declared 
Mulligan  severely.  "Reilly,  I'd  hate  to  arrest 
him  in  your  place,  so  I  would.  But  you'll  have 
to  make  this  lad  behave  himself." 

"Ah,  now,  Mr.  Officer,"  interrupted  Madge, 
with  a  sympathizing  glance  at  the  prisoner. 
"Sure  ye  wouldn't  be  after  pinching  the  boy 
for  a  bit  of  a  scrap,  would  ye?" 

Her  brogue  was  more  pronounced  than 
usual.  Perhaps  it  was  put  on  for  the  benefit 
of  Mulligan.  At  all  events,  it  had  its  effect, 
for  a  relenting  twinkle  came  into  his  eye. 

"Yes,  that's  all  very  well,"  he  stammered. 
"But " 

"Ah,  faith,  an'  didn't  I  know  it?"  laughed 
Madge.  "Sure  it's  Irish  ye  are  yourself.  A 
fine  fighting  man  ye  are,  too.  Any  one  can 
see  that  with  half  an  eye.  As  for  this  lad 


A   SKIRMISH  91 

here,  I'll  be  answerable  for  him,  so  I  will. 
Give  him  to  me." 

"Are  ye  going  to  quit  fighting,  if  I  let  ye 
go?"  demanded  Mulligan  of  his  prisoner. 

The  young  man  seemed  inclined  to  refuse 
the  offer  of  liberty  on  these  terms.  But,  before 
he  could  speak,  Madge  answered  for  him : 

"Of  course,  he  will.  Sure  he's  given  me  his 
word  with  his  eyes.  Take  your  hands  off  him, 
both  you  and  Mr.  Reilly,  and  you'll  see." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
"BOOTS  AND  SADDLES" 

MADGE  was  taking  a  chance  when  she 
pledged  herself  for  the  stranger's 
good  behavior.  But  she  was  used  to 
risks  in  her  business.  Moreover,  there  was 
something  in  his  face — even  distorted  by  an- 
ger as  it  was — that  told  her  she  was  safe.  This 
man  would  not  dishonor  her  personal  guaran- 
tee. She  was  sure  of  that. 

Still  it  was  not  easy  for  the  avenger  to  drop 
hostilities  all  at  once.  For  a  few  seconds  he 
scowled  at  the  burly  teamster  by  the  bar,  and 
his  fingers  twitched.  He  would  like  to  have 
sent  in  one  more  good,  clean  punch.  But  he 
fought  down  the  temptation,  and,  turning  his 
back,  walked  slowly  down  the  room. 

"Be  the  powers,  ye've  made  him  quit,  ye 
little  divil!"  said  Mulligan  to  Madge.  "But  I 
don't  believe  a  man  could  have  done  it." 

"It  wasn't  a  man's  job,  officer  dear," 
92 


"BOOTS   AND   SADDLES"         93 

laughed  Madge.  "Only  women  have  any  right 
to  spoil  a  fair  fight.  And  why  not  ?  It's  gen- 
erally one  of  'em  as  causes  it,  and,  be  the  same 
token,  they  should  bring  it  to  an  end  when 
they  think  it's  gone  far  enough.  How's  that, 
Mr.  Reilly?  What  do  you  think?" 

"It  listens  good,"  replied  the  saloonkeeper. 
Then,  turning  to  the  teamster,  who,  sulkily 
defiant,  had  been  fenced  in  at  the  bar  by  Reddy 
and  one  of  the  sailors,  he  growled :  "You  get 
out  of  here,  Pete." 

"That's  what !"  added  Mulligan.  "Get  home 
to  your  wife.  She'll  finish  the  job  the  lad  over 
there  begun." 

"And  don't  come  here  again,"  ordered 
Reilly.  "I  don't  want  men  that  kick  horses 
in  my  place.  Now,  beat  it!" 

The  teamster,  finding  himself  decidedly  un- 
popular, slunk  out,  evidently  glad  to  get  away 
without  further  personal  damage.  Mulligan 
went  over  to  the  young  man  and  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Betune  ourselves — not  officially,  ye  under- 
stand— I  think  ye  done  right  to  lick  that  big 
stiff.  Pete  Bannon  his  name  is.  This  ain't 
the  first  time  I've  knowed  him  abuse  a  horse. 


94  THE  DESERTERS 

Only  a  month  ago  I  dusted  him  with  me  club 
and  ran  him  in  for  the  same  thing.  I'd  have 
done  it  ag'in  av  I'd  seen  him  kick  the  poor 
crayture,  so  I  would.  Now,  I  leave  ye  in  the 
charge  of  me  deputy,  who'll  have  to  kape  ye 
in  order." 

"Do  you  mean  me,  officer  darlint?"  asked 
Madge. 

"Of  course,  I  do.  Who  else  would  I  mean  ? 
Good  night  to  ye,  ye  little  divil !" 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Mulligan." 

Madge  accompanied  her  adieu  with  a  smile 
and  sly  wink.  It  made  Mulligan  twirl  his 
club  jauntily  by  its  leather  thong  as  he  went 
out.  He  also  executed  a  sort  of  jig-step  of 
which  he  was  never  guilty  except  when  very 
well  pleased. 

It  did  not  take  long  for  the  saloon  to  re- 
sume its  accustomed  tranquillity.  When  once 
a  scrap  was  ended,  there  was  no  use  "chew- 
ing the  rag"  over  it.  This  was  an  article  of 
faith  rarely  transgressed.  A  blase  composure 
was  considered  the  proper  attitude  of  those 
who  sought  relief  from  worldly  stress  in  the 
cloistered  retirement  of  Reilly's.  So,  when  the 
young  man  who  had  "soaked"  big  Pete  seated 


95 

himself  quietly  at  a  table  near  the  piano  and 
motioned  to  a  bartender  for  a  beer,  he  dropped 
from  the  general  notice  as  if  he  never  had 
been. 

The  beer  was  brought,  but  before  the  young 
man  could  get  the  money  out  of  his  pocket  to 
hand  it  to  the  bartender,  Reilly  interfered: 

"No,  you  can't  pay  for  that.  It's  on  the 
house.  You  put  a  crimp  in  our  peaceful  even- 
ing, to  be  sure.  But  you  knocked  out  Black 
Pete,  and  that's  good  for  a  drink  any  day." 

"He  may  thank  his  bull  luck  I  didn't  kill 

him.  The  brute!"  was  the  reply.  "Well,  I'll 
drink  your  health." 

"Thanks!" 

And  thus  were  Dan  Reilly  and  the  van- 
quisher of  Black  Pete  encompassed  by  the 
snowy  wings  of  the  dove  of  peace,  in  the  odor 
of  sanctity — and  beer. 

Madge  took  her  place  on  the  platform  and 
whispered  something  to  the  pianist.  The  in- 
dustrious Scroggs  dashed  off  the  introduction 
to  a  pastoral  much  favored  at  Reilly's,  the  bur- 
den of  which  was  "I've  waited,  honey,  long  for 
you." 

Madge  fixed  her  gaze  upon  the  face  of  the 


96  THE  DESERTERS 

young  man  whom  Reilly  had  made  an  hon- 
ored guest,  and  sang  this  effusion  directly  at 
him.  He  did  not  seem  to  notice  it.  He  may 
have  felt  the  significance  of  the  refrain.  "I've 
waited  long  for  you."  But,  if  so,  he  did  not 
betray  his  thoughts.  Evidently  he  admired  the 
singer.  There  was  nothing  to  indicate  that  he 
applied  the  words  to  himself. 

After  sipping  his  beer  in  compliment  to  his 
host,  he  did  not  touch  the  glass  again.  But 
when  Madge  came  over  to  his  table  and  sat 
down,  he  was  mindful  of  the  rigid  etiquette 
of  Reilly's.  He  asked  her  if  she  would  have 
a  drink.  She  declined,  with  a  smile.  She  was 
not  thirsty,  she  said. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  thank  you  for  saving 
me  from  the  cops  just  now,"  he  said. 

"Indeed,  and  it's  me  should  be  thanking  you 
for  punching  that  brute  of  a  man.  Kicking 
his  horse,  was  he?  Faith,  I  could  lick  him 
myself,  so  I  could." 

In  her  earnestness,  the  gray  eyes  of  her 
flashed  like  points  of  polished  steel.  Her 
brogue — which  her  listener  found  more  musi- 
cal than  he  had  ever  thought  the  Celtic  twang 


"BOOTS  AND   SADDLES"        97 

could  be — gave  added  force  to  her  indigna- 
tion. She  meant  what  she  said.  Black  Pete 
would  have  realized  that  if  she  had  had  him 
there  just  then. 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  slight  frame 
and  smiled  dubiously. 

"I  don't  doubt  your  pluck.  But  I'm  afraid  I 
couldn't  bet  my  money  on  you  against  a  two- 
hundred-pounder  like  Black  Pete." 

"You  mustn't  judge  by  appearances,"  she  re- 
joined. "I've  got  the  best  of  it  in  many  a 
bout." 

Something  in  the  significant  way  she  said 
this  made  her  companion  look  at  her  quickly. 
He  asked  seriously,  with  a  sudden  change  from 
his  bantering  tone  of  a  moment  before: 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Madge." 

"Madge  what?"  he  persisted. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  hummed  a 
waltz  Scroggs  was  playing  to  fill  in  between 
songs. 

"No  matter.  One  name  is  enough  down 
here." 

Again  he  studied    her    girlish  figure  and 


98  THE  DESERTERS 

pretty  face — a  face  that  seemed  to  be  out- 
raged by  the  rouge  and  powder — and  said 
softly : 

"You  were  different — once  ?    Weren't  you  ?" 

"Maybe.  What's  your  name?  What  am 
I  to  call  you  ?" 

"Jim,"  he  replied,  snapping  out  the  word  as 
if  he  were  biting  it.  "As  you  say,  one  name's 
enough  down  here." 

"You've  been  a  soldier,  haven't  you?" 

He  rose  suddenly  from  his  chair,  but  sat 
down  again  immediately.  There  was  a 
hoarse  note  in  his  voice  that  told  he  was  on 
the  defensive,  as  he  demanded  : 

"Why  should  you  think  that?" 

"Well,  you  walk  like  one,  and  you  sit  like 
one,  well  forward  on  your  chair,  with  your  feet 
squarely  on  the  floor,  instead  of  lolling  back, 
as  most  men  do.  Then  I  heard  you  say  just 
now  that  you'd  'go  to  mill'  for  the  sake  of 
getting  another  crack  at  Black  Pete.  Down 
here  we  say  'get  pinched/  That  'go  to  mill'  is 
soldier  talk  through  and  through.  I  know,  be- 
cause my  brother  was  a  solider." 

"Oh,  he  was?  You  mean  he  isn't  now? 
Served  his  time  and  discharged,  I  suppose?" 


"BOOTS   AND   SADDLES"         99 

"No." 

"H'm!    Deserter,  eh?" 

"Not  so  bad  as  that.    He's  dead." 

"Oh!" 

"He  went  to  the  Philippines.  Bad  luck  to 
the  place !  He  got  the  fever  out  there.  That's 
why  I  hate  the  army,  and  all  that  belongs  to 
it." 

"Well,  you  needn't  hate  me  for  that  rea- 
son," he  said,  with  a  grim  laugh.  "I'm  not  an 
army  man." 

"But  you  know  how  to  fight." 

"Fight?  Oh,  you  mean  Black  Pete.  Yes, 
I  can  fight." 

"And  you  love  horses.  I  can  tell  that  be- 
cause it  made  you  just  crazy  when  you  saw 
one  ill-treated." 

He  frowned  at  the  thought  of  the  horse's 
suffering.  Then  he  smiled  as  he  looked  at  her 
and  absorbed  a  little  flame  from  her  vivid 
spirit.  There  is  something  in  a  man's  eyes 
which  tells  a  woman  when  he  has  become  really 
conscious  of  her  personality,  when  he  feels  her 
proximity  and  influence,  and  when  the  way  is 
clear  for  her  to  interest  or  fascinate  him. 

When  Madge  caught  that  first  faint  gleam 


ioo  THE  DESERTERS 

— ah !  and  well  she  knew  it ! — she  realized  that 
her  cue  had  come.  And  she  leaned  her  bare 
elbows  on  the  table  and  talked  more  earnestly 
than  ever.  She  shaded  off  her  brogue  almost 
imperceptibly,  dropping  into  it  now  and  again, 
as  most  Irish  persons  do  when  they  are  in- 
terested. And  the  sombre  gray  eyes  of  the 
man  flashed  as  he  drew  warmth  and  light  from 
her  words  and  was  carried  away  by  the 
changeful,  brilliant,  gracious  ways  of  her  that 
made  her  so  dangerous — and  so  sweet ! 

"Did  you  leave  Ireland  on  a  broomstick?" 
he  asked. 

"Sure.  And  I  ride  it  yet  o'  nights,  over  the 
house-tops — houp-la!  —  straight  up  to  the 
moon !" 

"Won't  you  take  me  along  some  time?  I'd 
like  to  try  the  moon.  I'm  about  sick  of  this 
globe." 

"Whisper !  The  moon's  no  better.  'Tis  peo- 
pled with — ghosts!" 

"Ghosts?"* 

"Yes,  sure !  The  sins  of  saints,  and  the  good 
deeds  of  sinners,  and  such-like  specters." 

She  broke  off  to  look  toward  the  piano, 
where  Scroggs  was  signaling  her. 


"BOOTS   AND   SADDLES"       101 

"There!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  must  sing 
again." 

"Will  you  come  back  afterward?" 

"No.  I  don't  think  I  shall  have  time.  When 
I  have  sung  one  or  two  more  I  must  be  off 
to  my  broomstick!  'Tis  growin'  restive  up 
beyant!" 

She  left  him  laughing.  But  when  she  had 
sung  once  she  did  come  back  to  him. 

"I  guess  I  have  a  little  time,"  she  said. 
"And  I  felt  as  if  I  wanted  to  tell  you  again 
how  glad  I  am  you  licked  Black  Pete.  Sure 
you  were  crazy  mad  at  him,  weren't  you?" 

"Who  wouldn't  be  crazy  at  such  a  thing 
as  that?"  he  growled.  "If  you'd  seen  that 
great  brute  kick " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  she  interrupted.  "But 
that's  all  over.  You  licked  him,  anyhow.  How 
is  it  I  haven't  seen  you  here  before  this 
week?" 

"I  stay  away  from  saloons  as  much  as  I 
can.  But  I  get  so  lonesome  in  this  town  that 
I  have  to  go  where  there's  a  little  life  some- 
times. I  don't  know  any  livelier  place  than 
Reilly's.  I  was  just  coming  in  when  I  saw 
that  fellow  abusing  his  horse." 


102  THE  DESERTERS 

"Don't  you  ever  drink  anything  stronger 
than  beer  ?" 

"Yes,  but  I  shouldn't." 

"I  see." 

He  turned  on  her  angrily. 

"You  see?  What  do  you  see?  What  do 
you  mean  ?" 

"My!  What  are  you  flying  off  the  handle 
like  that  for?  I  didn't  mean  anything  except 
that  I  suppose  whisky  is  too  much  for  you. 
It  is  for  some  men.  Makes  them  do  things 
they'd  never  think  of  if  they  were  in  their 
right  senses." 

He  seemed  about  to  say  something  in  apol- 
ogy for  his  sudden  flaming  up,  when  the 
cracked  tones  of  a  very  badly  played  bugle 
echoed  through  the  room.  The  piano  hap- 
pened to  be  silent  just  then.  Jim  started  as 
he  heard  the  bugle.  Involuntarily  his  shoul- 
ders went  back  and  he  sat  rigidly  in  his  chair, 
as  if  ready  for  a  call  to  "Attention!" 

Madge  watched  him  narrowly.  Her  laugh- 
ing face  had  become  grave,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  keen  speculation.  If  Jim  had  been 
looking  at  her,  he  must  have  noted  the  trans- 
formation. 


"BOOTS   AND   SADDLES"       103 

''That's  Toots,  the  knife-grinder,"  she  re- 
marked, in  an  off-hand  manner,  after  a  pause. 
"He's  around  here  every  night  with  that  old 
horn  of  his.  That  was  'reveille'  he  was  trying 
to  play,  wasn't  it?" 

"No.    'Boots  and  saddles!'" 

His  head  had  dropped  upon  his  hands,  his 
elbows  resting  on  the  table.  That  he  had  for- 
gotten where  he  was  for  the  moment  was  ob- 
vious. He  did  not  seem  to  be  conscious  even 
of  the  presence  of  Madge.  He  had  answered 
her  query  mechanically.  Then  he  muttered  to 
himself: 

"  'Boots  and  saddles !'  'Boots  and  sad- 
dles!'" 

Toots  had  presumed  to  come  inside  the  sa- 
loon to  blow  a  blast  on  his  bugle.  The  two  bar- 
tenders, under  Reilly's  orders,  were  about  to 
throw  him  out. 

"Oh,  don't  hurt  the  poor  devil!"  protested 
Jim,  rousing  himself.  "He  isn't  doing  any 
harm,  is  he?  There's  worse  music  than  a 
bugle." 

"That  may  be,"  rejoined  Reilly.  "But 
everything  in  its  place,  and  this  ain't  no  army 
parade  ground.  We've  got  all  the  music  we 


104  THE  DESERTERS 

want  of  our  own.  Go  ahead,  Scroggs!  Get 
busy!  We'll  have  another  song.  Won't  we, 
honey?" 

The  last  sentence  was  addressed  to  Madge, 
who  was  thoughtfully  regarding  Jim.  She 
walked  over  to  the  piano,  where  Scroggs  was 
polishing  the  keys  with  his  handkerchief.  As 
he  polished  he  sighed  wearily.  The  girl  no- 
ticed it. 

"What's  the  matter,  Scroggs?  You  look 
pretty  well  all  in  ?" 

He  smiled  and  took  his  seat  at  the  instru- 
ment with  his  usual  patient  willingness. 

"I'm  a  little  tired  and  hungry.  That's  all. 
I'd  be  all  right  if  I  had  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a 
couple  of  sandwiches.  I  didn't  have  time  for 
supper." 

"Why  don't  you  go  out  and  get  something?" 

"I  can't.  I'm  paid  by  the  hour,  and  I  need 
every  cent  I  can  make.  I'll  get  along  till  we 
close  up.  Then  I'll  snatch  a  bite  before  I  go 
to  bed.  What'll  you  sing  next  ?" 

But  Madge  was  not  to  be  put  off.  She  knew 
the  pianist  was  wretchedly  paid.  Also  she  had 
heard,  somewhere  or  somehow,  that  there  was 
a  Mrs.  Scroggs,  and  that  she  was  in  poor 


"BOOTS   AND   SADDLES"       105 

health.  Medicine  is  expensive.  When  it  must 
be  bought  regularly  every  week  it  becomes  a 
heavy  burden  on  a  man  who  earns  very  little 
money.  This  is  not  all,  either.  There  are  ex- 
tras, in  the  way  of  food  and  drink,  which  or- 
dinarily would  be  luxuries,  but  which  are  nec- 
essaries to  an  invalid.  There  is  practically  no 
limit  to  what  these  may  cost. 

Of  all  this  Madge  was  cognizant,  and  it 
made  her  angry  on  behalf  of  Scroggs.  As  she 
looked  around,  seeking  some  way  to  assist  him, 
she  caught  the  eye  of  the  man,  Jim,  who  had 
corrected  her  so  quickly  when  she  had  mis- 
taken the  bugle  call,  "Boots  and  saddles,"  for 
"Reveille." 

His  response  to  her  unspoken  appeal  was  im- 
mediate. 

"Here,  I'll  help  you  out,  old  man,"  he  called 
to  Scroggs.  "You  get  along  to  your  grub." 

Scroggs  hesitated,  fingering  his  sheet  music 
nervously.  The  money  he  got  for  playing  at 
Reilly's  was  very  important  to  him. 

"That's  all  right,"  continued  Jim,  gently 
pushing  him  aside.  "I  can  play  the  piano — 
well  enough  to  hold  your  job  till  you  get  back. 
Go  on,  now !  Melt  away !" 


io6  THE  DESERTERS 

"Hello!  New  professor,  eh?"  exclaimed 
Reilly.  "What  are  your  terms,  professor?" 

"You  haven't  any  objections,  have  you?" 
asked  Jim,  taking  his  seat  and  running  his  fin- 
gers over  the  keys  with  the  ease  of  one  used 
to  the  instrument. 

"Not  a  one,  if  the  ladies  and  gents  will  stand 
for  it.  Always  like  a  novelty  myself." 

"Then  here's  one." 

With  a  laugh,  he  began  to  play  "My  Old 
Kentucky  Home."  That  he  was  a  true  mu- 
sician was  proved  before  he  had  finished  half 
a  dozen  measures.  When  he  had  gone  through 
the  melody  to  the  very  end,  refrain  and  all,  a 
loud  sob  from  the  poor,  beer-soaked  drudge 
— the  man  who  did  the  sweeping  out — made 
him  stop  suddenly. 

"Look  here,  you!"  roared  Reilly,  advancing 
on  the  waif.  "Make  another  break  like  that 
and  you  are  barred  from  this  place  from  now 
on.  Get  that?" 

"Oh,  let  him  alone,  Reilly,"  interposed 
Madge.  "He  couldn't  help  it.  I  came  near 
doing  a  weep  myself.  I  always  do  when  I 
hear  that  tune.  Here !  I'll  give  you  something 


"BOOTS   AND   SADDLES"       107 

different.  'Sailing!'  How's  that?  Can  you 
play  it — Jim?" 

"Yes.    I  know  the  song." 

Into  the  rollicking  composition  she  dashed 
headlong,  after  a  few  bars  of  prelude.  Every- 
body joined  in  the  chorus,  and  the  pianist  rat- 
tled off  an  accompaniment  that  Scroggs  could 
not  have  done  better.  Just  as  the  song  ended 
he  returned.  Jim  got  up  at  once,  and  the  reg- 
ular pianist  dropped  into  his  place.  He  was  in 
much  better  spirits  after  his  sandwiches  and 
coffee. 

For  the  short  remainder  of  the  evening  Jim 
sat  near  the  piano,  but  he  did  not  play  again. 
At  midnight  Madge  announced  that  she  was 
going  home.  He  asked  for  permission  to  see 
her  safely  to  her  door.  She  refused  him  al- 
most rudely.  That  was  something  she  never 
allowed  any  one  to  do,  she  said.  She  could  find 
her  way  home  by  herself. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  as  if  trying  to 
read  her  secret.  From  the  beginning  he  had 
felt  sure  she  did  not  belong  to  the  "Barbary 
Coast." 

"Are  you  going  on  your  broomstick?"  he 
asked  softly. 


io8  THE  DESERTERS 

"Yes.  It's  waiting  for  me  outside.  Good 
night." 

He  did  not  go  out  till  she  had  been  gone 
several  minutes.  Somehow,  she  knew  he 
wouldn't,  even  though  she  looked  about  to 
make  sure  he  was  nowhere  in  sight  when  she 
slipped  in  at  the  side  door  of  her  hotel. 

Once  in  her  room,  Madge  locked  the  door 
and  went  to  the  telephone.  With  some  dif- 
ficulty she  got  Western  Union  on  the  wire. 
Then  she  dictated  a  message,  to  be  sent  by  tele- 
graph, "rush,"  to  Colonel  Parsons  at  the  army 
post  in  far-away  Kansas.  It  was  as  follows: 

"Think  have  our  man.  Send  some  one  to 
identify  at  once. — M.  SUMMERS." 


CHAPTER  IX 
"TO  THE  COLORS!" 

MADGE  felt  that  she  had  done  her  duty 
when  she  sent  this  telegram,  signed 
"M.  Summers/'  to  Colonel  Parsons. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  that  "Jim," 
the  man  who  had  thrashed  Black  Pete  and  aft- 
erward played  the  piano,  was  the  deserter, 
Lieutenant  James  Craig. 

It  had  been  arranged,  before  she  left  the 
post  in  Kansas,  that  she  should  telegraph  as 
soon  as  she  had  run  down  her  man.  Then 
some  officer  of  the  regiment  would  hurry  to 
her  and  confront  the  fugitive.  Well,  she  had 
caught  the  man  and  telegraphed.  She  had 
obeyed  orders  to  the  letter. 

Why,  then,  did  she  sit  at  her  table,  cheek 
in  hand,  gazing  at  the  photograph  of  Jim 
Craig,  for  more  than  an  hour  after  she  had 
"rung  off"  at  the  telephone?  What  reason 
for  those  dry  sobs  at  intervals  ?  Why,  at  last, 

109 


i  io  THE   DESERTERS 

did  tears  run  down  and  drop  on  the  picture 
before  she  could  intercept  them  with  angry 
dabs  of  her  handkerchief?  What  did  her 
murmur  of  "Poor  lad!  Poor  lad!"  signify? 
In  a  word,  why  did  she  behave  as  if  she  were 
racked  by  grief  and  bitter  disappointment — she 
who  had  brought  her  work  to  so  brilliant  an 
issue. 

She  got  up  and  locked  the  photograph  in 
her  trunk.  Then,  with  savage  haste,  she  re- 
moved the  rouge,  the  powder  and  the  paint 
from  her  cheeks,  forehead  and  eyebrows,  and 
tore  off  the  tinseled  pink  frock.  It  was  not 
until  she  was  in  the  modest  dressing-gown 
which  she  always  wore  in  her  room  that  she 
became  calm. 

"After  all,  I  am  doing  it  for  his  good,"  she 
told  herself.  "He  is  unhappy.  That  anybody 
can  see.  Once  let  him  get  back  into  the  whole- 
some routine  of  the  garrison,  and  he  will  be 
his  own  man  again." 

Madge  had  seen  such  cases  before — that  is, 
cases  like  it  in  a  way.  It  is  true  she  could  not 
recall  one  in  which  she  had  felt  the  same  per- 
sonal concern.  But  that  was  merely  a  detail. 
The  underlying  fact  was  that  every  deserter 


"TO   THE   COLORS"  in 

she  ever  had  captured  was  grateful  to  her 
afterward. 

That  was  all  very  well,  but 

How  she  wished  she  could  be  sure  that 
Lieutenant  James  Craig  would  be  grateful 
when  she  handed  him  over  to  the  squad  of 
soldiers  who  would  eventually  march  him  into 
the  presence  of  his  commanding  officer!  He 
should  be  grateful.  But — would  he?  In 
theory  there  could  be  no  question  that  he — 
an  educated,  intelligent  man,  loyal  to  his  flag 
and  country — would  rejoice  when  he  found 
how  easy  it  was  to  rehabilitate  himself.  In 
practice  it  must  be  an  experiment. 

It  was  not  always  that  experiments  were 
successful.  She  was  obliged  to  admit  that. 
Then  she  remembered  the  almost  angry  way 
in  which  he  had  declared  that  he  was  not  in 
the  army.  He  had  said  it  as  if  the  yery 
thought  was  repugnant.  Of  course,  his  latest 
military  associations  had  not  been  pleasant. 
When  one  has  struck  one's  superior  officer  and 
run  away,  the  recollection  is  not  likely  to  be 
agreeable.  All  Madge  could  hope  for  was 
that  this  would  fade  from  his  mind.  Then  his 
gratification  at  being  again  an  honest  man, 


ii2  THE   DESERTERS 

under  the  old  flag,  would  outweigh  everything 
else. 

In  the  morning  her  first  thought  was  that 
she  must  spend  two  more  evenings  at  Reilly's 
before  the  officer,  whoever  he  might  be,  would 
arrive  to  say  that  she  had  made  no  mistake  in 
pointing  out  this  "Jim"  as  Lieutenant  James 
Craig.  On  both  these  evenings  there  was  a 
likelihood — practically  a  certainty — that  he 
would  be  there.  If  he  were,  they  would  talk 
to  each  other.  Would  she  be  at  her  ease  with 
him,  knowing  that  she  had  sent  that  telegram  ? 
She  decided  she  would.  Why  shouldn't  she? 
An  army  detective  must  not  be  squeamish. 

That  evening  Jim  did  not  appear  at  Reilly's 
till  late.  He  sauntered  in  quietly  and  unob- 
trusively. There  was  none  of  the  melodra- 
matic hurly-burly  of  the  night  before,  when 
Black  Pete  involuntarily  heralded  his  coming 
by  turning  a  somersault  through  the  door- 
way. 

Madge  saw  him  as  soon  as  he  entered,  but 
she  did  not  meet  his  eye.  He  took  a  seat  not 
far  from  the  piano  and  stared  moodily  in  turn 
at  everybody  else  in  the  room.  Madge  de- 
cided that  he  was  trying  to  avoid  her.  Also 


"TO   THE  COLORS"  113 

she  knew  intuitively  that  he  would  have  talked 
to  her,  only  that,  for  some  reason,  he  was 
afraid.  Soon  he  gave  an  order  to  one  of  the 
bartenders,  who  at  Reilly's  were  also  waiters. 
She  observed  that  whisky,  not  beer,  was 
brought.  He  drank  it  down  and  ordered 
more. 

"He's  no  business  to  be  drinking  whisky," 
thought  Madge.  "If  he  doesn't  stop  that  soon, 
I  shall  have  to  go  and  make  him." 

She  turned  over  the  music  on  the  piano  nerv- 
ously. Then  she  looked  at  Jim  again.  He  was 
frowning  thoughtfully  at  the  table. 

"I  suppose  Reilly  would  say  I  was  spoiling 
trade  again.  And,  after  all,  what  is  it  to  me 
what  this  man  drinks?  He  is  not  under  my 
care  in  that  way.  All  I  am  expected  to  do  is 
to  have  him  here  when  an  officer  from  the  post 
comes  to  identify  him.  Whether  he  is  drunk 
or  sober  makes  no  difference !" 

There  were  cries  for  a  song,  and  Madge 
chose  the  first  thing  that  came  to  hand.  It 
was  "Mavourneen."  She  was  always  safe  in 
giving  the  company  a  ballad  of  Ireland,  and 
this  one  was  a  particular  favorite. 

Scroggs  played  it  with  the  uninterested  cor- 


ii4  THE  DESERTERS 

I 

rectness  that  marked  his  work  when  he  was 
tired.  He  was  master  of  his  instrument,  and  at 
such  times  it  mattered  not  to  him  whether  it 
were  Haydn  or  Harris,  Chopin  or  Cohan, 
Brahms  or  Baldwin  Sloane.  All  he  asked  was 
that  the  music  be  set  before  him.  His  adroit 
fingers  did  the  rest. 

Through  this  song  and  several  others  Jim 
sat  silent  at  his  table.  Not  once  did  he  look 
in  her  direction,  neither  did  he  touch  his  second 
glass  of  whisky.  If  Madge  had  not  been  a 
deeper  student  of  man's  nature  than  most 
young  women  of  her  age,  she  might  have 
thought  he  was  nursing  his  anger  because  she 
had  not  allowed  him  to  see  her  home  on  the 
prerious  night.  But  she  knew  better  than  that. 
She  was  not  over-vain,  but  if  there  were  not  an 
ache  in  that  man's  heart  which  responded  to 
one  in  her  own,  then  the  sweet  instinct  that 
has  warned  women  of  the  presence  of  love  in 
all  ages  had  entirely  misled  her. 

Why  she  thrilled  simply  at  the  presence  of 
this  rather  morose  runaway  soldier  she  had 
not  been  able  to  explain,  even  after  many 
hours  of  self-communion.  He  was  no  hand- 


"TO   THE   COLORS"  115 

somer  than  several  other  men  whom  she,  in 
the  exercise  of  her  calling,  had  run  down  and 
snared,  and  he  had  not  won  her  by  doing 
anything  that  could  be  called  really  heroic. 
Any  able-bodied  patron  of  Reilly's  might  have 
knocked  down  Black  Pete.  He  played  the 
piano  pretty  well;  but  Scroggs  did  it  better. 
He  was  not  over-agreeable  in  his  manners,  and, 
judging  by  all  she  had  seen  and  heard  of  him, 
he  was  cursed  with  an  ungovernable  temper. 
What  was  in  him,  then,  that  made  her  feel 
like  a  traitor,  when,  in  truth,  she  was  proving 
her  loyalty  to  the  army  she  loved,  to  the  flag 
she  revered? 

"How  simple  it  all  might  be  if  he  could 
only  give  me  his  confidence.    Then " 

She   laughed  bitterly  as  she  reached  this 
point  in  her  reflections. 

x  "Why  should  he  place  confidence  in  me? 
To  him  I'm  only  a  singer  in  a  low  saloon  in 
the  worst  quarter  of  a  large  city!  A  decent 
man  doesn't  open  his  heart  to  such  a  woman 
as  he  supposes  me  to  be.  He  may  be  attracted 
— in  a  way,  taking  me  for  what  I  am.  But, 
of  course,  he  never  forgets  that  I  am  not  of 


n6  THE  DESERTERS 

his  class.  What  will  he  think  when  he  finds 
out  my  real  character?  Won't  the  army  spy 
(I  dare  say  he'll  call  me  that)  seem  to  him 
lower  by  far  than  the  bedizened  concert-girl? 
Or — will  he  understand?" 

"Say,  Madge,"  suddenly  called  out  a  young 
fellow  in  khaki — a  private  from  the  fort  bar- 
racks. "Give  us  a  soldier  song,  won't  you?" 

Madge  looked  at  Jim.  He  had  suddenly 
shifted  his  position,  but  without  turning  to- 
ward her.  A  curious  smile  curled  her  lip. 
From  the  pile  on  the  piano  she  picked  out  a 
piece  of  sheet  music  on  which  was  a  picture 
of  a  troop  of  charging  cavalry,  and  handed  it 
to  Scroggs. 

"All  right,"  she  called  out  to  the  soldier 
from  the  fort  "Here's  a  new  one  that  might 
fill  the  bill.  I  brought  it  with  me  from  the 
East.  Go  head,  Scroggs !" 

The  pianist  played  a  few  martial  chords. 
Then  Madge,  throwing  her  head  back,  flung 
herself  into  the  song.  Through  the  melody 
one  could  hear  the  blare  of  bugles,  the  clash 
of  sabers,  and  the  thunder  of  hoofbeats,  all 
fitting  in  with  the  spirited  words : 


"TO   THE   COLORS"  117 

"It's  'Boots  and  saddles/  and  marching  kit! 
For  the  chance  has  come  to  fight  a  bit! 

And  it's  hark!    Ra-ta-ta! 

To  the  front!    Ra-ta-ta! 

For  we've  our  marching  orders! 

Nobody  knows  just  where  we  go, 

And  none  of  the  lot  cares  half  a  blow ! 

For  it's  hark!    Ra-ta-ta! 

We're  off!    Ra-ta-ta! 

For  we've  our  marching  orders !" 

"It's  listen  and  hark:     'To  the  Colors,'  boys! 
You  must  know  the  call  in  the  battle's  noise; 

And  it's  hark!    Ra-ta-ta! 

We're  off!    Ra-ta-ta! 

For  we've  our  marching  orders! 
Honor  and  toil  and  death  to  find, 
And  dreams  of  the  girls  we've  left  behind ! 

But  it's  hark!    Ra-ta-ta! 

We're  off!    Ra-ta-ta! 

And  we've  our  marching  orders ! 

"Stirrup  to  stirrup,  and  rein  to  rein, 

Cantering  far  and  fast; 
What  o'  the  hardship,  what  oj  the  pain  ? 

It's  Active  Service  at  last! 


n8  THE  DESERTERS 

If  it's  glory  or  woe, 
Doesn't  count  for  a  blow, 

When  the  game  of  war's  to  play; 
For  it's  Marching  Orders ! 
It's  Marching  Orders ! 

And,  lads !    We  start  to-day !" 

There  was  no  resisting  the  swing  and  verve 
of  this  call  to  battle.  Words  and  music  to- 
gether would  have  awakened  the  fighting  spirit 
in  the  veriest  poltroon  who  ever  hid  behind 
a  tree  when  bullets  were  flying. 

Everybody  in  the  room  caught  it  up,  and 
the  air  was  roared  in  a  dozen  different  keys. 
Then,  as  Scroggs  finished  it  up  with  a  dash- 
ing arpeggio,  Madge  stepped  down  from  the 
platform  and  seated  herself  opposite  Jim,  with 
only  the  table  between  them. 

He  looked  at  her  now,  with  blazing  eyes. 

"Did  you  sing  that  deliberately?"  he 
demanded. 

"Yes." 

"Why?    Why?    Why?" 

He  repeated  the  word  feverishly,  as  he 
leaned  toward  her. 


"TO   THE  COLORS"  119 

"I'll  tell  you — later,"  she  replied,  with  a 
quiet  intonation  that  maddened  him. 

"You'll  tell  me  now — now!  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  break  your  neck  for  doing  such  a  cruel 
thing." 

"It  was  cruel.  I  know  that.  I  meant  it  to 
be.  I " 

She  stopped  and  looked  around.  But  in  the 
din  of  the  room  they  were  as  much  alone,  so 
far  as  the  likelihood  of  being  overheard  was 
concerned,  as  if  they  had  been  in  a  wilder- 
ness. 

"Go  on,"  he  said. 

Madge  drew  a  deep  breath.  Her  arms  were 
on  the  table,  her  eyes  steady. 

"How  did  that  song — affect  you  ?"  she  asked 
quietly. 

"Affect  me  ?  How  should  it  affect  me  ?"  he 
broke  forth  tempestuously.  "It  made  me  mad 
enough  to  kill  myself — and  you." 

She  smiled  at  this,  and  went  on,  in  a  grave, 
even  voice : 

"Did  it  bring  it  all  back— Jim?  Did  it 
make  you  think  of  the  old  cavalry  drill,  the 
guidons  flashing  in  the  sun,  the  clashing  of 
swords,  the " 


120  THE  DESERTERS 

"Madge!    Don't " 

But  she  continued,  steadily  and  relentlessly : 

"Did  it  recall  the  days  when  you,  too, 
dreamed  of  marching  orders,  of  the  call  'To 
the  colors!'  of  active  service?  Did  it?" 

Into  his  face  came  the  expression  she  had 
been  waiting  for — the  hungry  look  of  a  man 
whose  heart  is  seared  and  torn  by  a  great 
longing.  He  did  not  speak.  His  hand  moved 
toward  the  glass  of  whisky  he  had  not  touched 
before.  She  caught  his  wrist  and  held  it. 

"Don't  drink  that  now.  I  want  to  ask  you 
something." 

"Well?" 

"Jim — why  don't  you  go  back?" 

He  shook  his  head.  Her  fingers  were  still 
clasping  his  wrist. 

"I — can't,"  he  answered,  in  a  strange, 
Hoarse  tone,  deep  in  his  throat,  as  his  eyes 
stared  past  her  into  space. 

"Yes,  you  can !  You  can !  You're  a  brave 
man,  I  know.  You're  not  afraid  to  take  your 
punishment,  whatever  it  is.  After  all,  you  de- 
serve it.  You'll  admit  that.  Go  back  and  face 
them  all,  just  as  you  would  face  the  enemy  with 


121 

your  troop.  It  is  the  only  manly  thing  to  do. 
It  is  what,  as  a  true  soldier,  you  must  do." 

"Do  you  think  so— Madge?" 

There  was  a  thoughtful,  almost  tender, 
modulation  of  his  voice.  It  was  as  if  he  were 
asking  the  advice  of  one  in  whom  he  placed 
perfect  trust. 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  shs  answered.  "You  will 
regain  your  self-respect,  and  your — your — 
friends — will  be  so  proud  of  your  courage. 
Jim!  Haven't  you  wanted  to  go  back,  all 
along?" 

She  had  never  released  his  wrist.  He  put 
his  other  hand  over  hers,  and,  as  he  looked 
into  her  eyes,  she  saw  that  while  the  anger 
had  died  out  of  them,  another  passion  was 
there,  even  stronger  than  the  wrath  which  had 
blazed  up  as  he  heard  her  song. 

Madge  was  naturally  a  self-controlled  young 
woman,  but,  try  as  she  might,  she  could  not 
prevent  her  heart  beating  violently  now.  It 
was  not  altogether  an  unpleasant  agitation, 
either. 

"Wanted  to  go  back?"  he  echoed  wildly. 
"Haven't  I?  Yes;  every  day  and  every  hour 


122  THE  DESERTERS 

since  I  came  away.  And  I  would  have  gone 
back,  I  think — except  for  you." 

"Except  for  me?    I  don't  understand." 

But  she  did  understand,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing very  strange  to  her  in  his  next  words : 

"Yes,  Madge,  except  for  you.  Don't  you 
believe  in  what  people  call  love  at  first  sight?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  am  glad  you  do,"  he  said.  "Until  to-day 
I'd  seen  you  only  once.  But  that  was  enough. 
If  I  hadn't  blundered  in  here  last  night  with 
that  fellow  who  kicked  his  horse,  I  should  have 
been  on  my  way  back  to  the  regiment  by  this 
time.  I  was  willing  to  give  myself  up.  I  was 
tired  of  the  lonely  life,  in  hiding  and  disgraced, 
and  I  thought  anything  would  be  better.  But 
you  looked  at  me  as  no  other  woman  ever  did 
before,  and  I  had  to  stay.  I  came  in  to-night 
to  find  out  whether  that  look  was  strong 
enough  to  hold  me.  And  it  is.  Things  appear 
different  to  me  now.  I'm  going  to  stay  here — 
where  you  are." 

The  peculiar  thing  about  it  all  was  that  he 
did  not  ask  what  her  feelings  were,  or  whether 
she  had  any  concerning  him.  It  may  have  been 
that  he  thought  his  avowal  was  too  unusual  to 


"TO   THE   COLORS"  123 

be  taken  quite  seriously.  Dan  Reilly  rudely  in- 
terrupted their  conversation  by  shouting  from 
the  bar : 

"Madge!  Let's  have  another  spiel,  won't 
you  ?  About  soldiers,  like  that  last  one." 

"All  right !"  she  answered,  in  her  customary 
careless  manner. 

She  got  up  from  the  table  and  went  to  the 
piano.  But  she  did  not  sing  another  soldier 
song.  Instead,  she  gave  them  several  of  the 
comic  "hits"  of  the  day — each  with  an  easily 
remembered  refrain,  so  that  all  could  join  in 
the  chorus.  With  a  sentimental  ballad  now  and 
then,  as  a  counterbalance. 

At  intervals  she  came  down  from  her  plat- 
form and  mingled  with  the  men  and  women  at 
the  tables.  Several  times  she  spoke  to  Jim  on 
indifferent  topics.  But  not  once  did  she  ask 
him  why  he  meant  to  stay  here — where  she 
was. 

Jim  never  finished  that  second  glass  of 
whisky.  At  midnight  Madge  went  out  to  g» 
home.  He  followed  and  caught  her  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  street. 

"Madge!  Won't  you  speak  to  me?"  he 
pleaded. 


124  THE  DESERTERS 

"To-morrow  night." 

Then,  as  if  afraid  of  further  speech,  either 
from  herself  or  him,  she  walked  swiftly  away, 
leaving  him  standing  there,  looking  after  her. 


CHAPTER  X 

SURRENDER 

JIM!  Jim  Craig!"  murmured  Madge,  as 
a  little  later  she  tossed  about  on  her  hot 
pillow.  "What  did  Mrs.  Billings  say? 
Sooner  or  later  a  sweetheart  is  sure  to  come. 
A  soldier  and  a  cavalryman!  The  very  best 
friend  I  could  have — better  than  all  the  woman 
friends  in  creation !  Well,  all  this  may  be.  But 
what  then?  Hasn't  such  a  man  right  to  de- 
mand perfect  truth  from  me  ?  That  is,  if  I  ad- 
mit that  I  care  for  him  ?" 

How  uncomfortable  her  pillow  was!  She 
must  turn  it  over.  It  would  be  cooler  under- 
neath !  Yes ;  that  was  much  better,  and 

"If  I  care  for  him!  He  asked  me  whether 
I  believed  in  love  at  first  sight.  Love  is  a 
strong  word.  It  means  so  much.  But  I — 
there's  no  one  to  hear  me — I  do  love  you,  Jim ! 
You  poor,  silly,  brave  boy!  Where  will  this 
love  of  ours  land  us  both?  Not  to  dishonor, 


126  THE   DESERTERS 

surely!  I  couldn't  believe  that,  Jim.  So — I 
surrender !" 

She  wondered  afterward  how  it  was  that 
she  had  fallen  asleep  so  peacefully.  But  it  was 
simple  enough.  The  weight  of  an  uncertainty 
had  been  lifted  from  her  mind.  She  knew  now 
that  she  did  believe  in  love  at  first  sight. 

With  her  breakfast  came  a  long  telegram 
from  Colonel  Parsons.  It  told  her  that  Lieu- 
tenant Marston  would  be  there  that  evening 
to  identify  the  man  she  believed  to  be  James 
Craig.  If  the  identification  were  made,  Lieu- 
tenant Marston  would  take  charge  of  the  pris- 
oner, relieving  her  of  any  further  work  on  the 
case. 

She  read  and  re-read  the  message  until  she 
had  every  word  by  heart.  Then,  in  a  sudden 
fury,  she  crumpled  the  paper  in  her  hand  and 
flung  it  on  the  floor,  as  far  away  as  she  could. 

"His  prisoner!"  she  gritted  through  her 
teeth.  "His  prisoner!" 

But  this  unreasoning  fury  did  not  last.  She 
picked  up  the  telegram  and  smoothed  it  out 
on  the  table  to  read  it  over  once  more.  As  she 
looked  thoughtfully  through  the  window  at  the 


SURRENDER  127 

dancing  waters  of  San  Francisco  Bay,  she  put 
the  yellow  paper  to  her  lips. 

Contradictory,  of  course!  But,  although 
Madge  Summers  was  a  level-headed  detective 
— in  high  favor  with  the  War  Department,  on 
account  of  her  success  in  tracking  deserters — 
she  was,  before  that,  a  woman,  whose  senti- 
mental nature  was  none  the  less  active  because 
never  shown  to  her  employers.  What  do  the 
austere  officials  of  the  War  Department  know 
about  sentiment,  anyhow?  Many  a  sensible 
girl  has  kissed  the  name  of  her  lover  in  a  tele- 
gram. 

Madge  did  not  leave  her  room  all  day.  Her 
private  correspondence — letters  to  friends  in 
Washington,  mostly — had  fallen  behind.  So 
she  spent  the  day  in  writing — when  she  was 
not  brooding  over  the  announcement  that  Lieu- 
tenant Marston  was  on  his  way  to  San  Fran- 
cisco and  would  be  there  that  evening. 

There  was  no  way  of  stopping  him.  He  had 
left  Kansas  when  the  colonel  sent  the  message, 
and  the  train  was  due  about  eight  o'clock. 
When  she  heard  that  it  was  at  least  three  hours 
late,  on  account  of  a  freight  wreck  in  the 


128  THE  DESERTERS 

Sierras,  she  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  Lieuten- 
ant Marston  had  the  name  of  her  hotel,  the 
Waldemar,  and  was  to  come  directly  there. 
She  told  Mrs.  Billings,  and  asked  her  to  send 
him  over  to  Reilly's.  It  was  there  he  would 
have  to  make  the  identification,  if  he  made  it 
at  all. 

Jim  was  waiting  for  her,  when — rouged, 
powdered,  and  painted,  and  in  the  pink  costume 
that  belonged  to  her  singing-girl  life — she 
burst  gayly  into  Reilly's.  There  was  more 
recklessness  in  her  demeanor  than  usual.  She 
felt  as  if  nothing  were  of  much  consequence 
— except  the  coming  of  Lieutenant  Marston. 

The  horror  of  it  all !  Already  she  could  see 
him  looking  at  the  deserter  in  that  cold  way  of 
his.  There  could  be  no  escape.  Of  course, 
Marston  would  recognize  him.  The  next  thing 
would  be  the  calling  forward  of  soldiers  from 
the  fort — who  would  be  detailed  under  his  or- 
ders. Then  the  clasping  of  steel  handcuffs  on 
the  prisoner's  wrists,  and  then 

She  had  been  thinking  of  this  all  day.  Until 
the  thing  actually  faced  her,  however,  she 
would  not  let  it  unnerve  her.  Marston  would 


SURRENDER  129 

not  be  there  for  several  hours.  In  the  mean- 
time, she  would  let  Jim  know  what  seemed  of 
so  much  importance  to  him.  She  would  tell 
him  that  she  did  believe  in  love  at  first  sight. 
That  was  what  he  wanted  to  hear  from  her, 
and  she  would  say  it  honestly.  But — could  she 
make  him  understand,  before  he  found  out 
what  some  might  call  her  perfidy — that  love 
was  detached  from  duty?  The  distinction  was 
subtle.  Would  he  be  able  to  see  it? 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  straightfor- 
wardness that  she  never  thought  of  hiding 
from  Jim  that  she  was  responsible  for  his  cap- 
ture. He  had  won  her  as  Madge,  the  concert 
hall  singer;  he  must  know  her  in  the  end  as 
Madge  Summers,  the  army  detective. 

She  walked  down  the  room  to  the  piano,  with 
a  sly  smile  for  everybody  she  passed.  The 
smile  was  in  her  contract.  She  was  paid  for 
it  as  well  as  for  singing.  Reilly  would  have 
had  her  drink,  too,  but  that  was  where  she 
drew  the  line. 

At  Jim's  table  she  stopped  and  deliberately 
smiled  at  him.  But  it  was  not  the  same  kind  of 
smile  that  she  had  bestowed  upon  the  others. 


130  THE  DESERTERS 

It  was  neither  sly  nor  suggestive  of  the  wan- 
ton. In  the  deep  gaze  that  accompanied  it 
Jim  read  sadness,  not  mirth. 

"Madge!"  he  whispered  huskily. 

"Yes?" 

As  she  said  "Yes,"  there  was  much  more 
than  a  mere  acknowledgment  of  her  name.  Of 
the  thousand  inflections  possible  to  this  com- 
monest of  words,  "Yes,"  she  had  chosen  the 
one  that  conveyed  to  him  a  distinct  message. 
He  caught  at  her  dress  eagerly. 

"Madge!" 

She  smiled  again,  as  one  might  placate  a 
fretful  child.  Then,  brushing  her  skirt  with 
her  hand,  as  if  to  remove  any  wrinkles  he 
might  have  made  when  he  took  hold  of  it,  she 
said  softly: 

"I'll  come  to  you  after  a  while." 

He  sank  back  in  his  chair  contentedly.  She 
had  noticed  that  a  glass  of  beer  was  before 
him,  and  that  the  tumbler  was  still  full.  He 
was  not  drinking  whisky  this  night. 

Scroggs  showed  her  a  song  and  she  nodded. 
She  did  not  care  what  it  was.  She  held  the 
sheet  in  her  hand  to  read  the  words  and  fol- 
lowed the  music  as  he  played  it.  This  was  re- 


SURRENDER  131 

versing  the  usual  order,  since  the  accompanist 
is  supposed  to  follow  the  singer.  But  rules, 
artistic  or  otherwise,  were  held  of  little  account 
at  Reilly's.  So  long  as  there  were  noise,  jol- 
lity, and  a  satisfactory  sale  of  liquor,  the  pro- 
prietor cared  little  how  the  results  were 
reached.  As  for  his  customers,  they  liked 
Madge  "any  old  way,"  as  Reddy,  the  strong- 
arm  man,  declared  with  several  strong  oaths. 

When  the  song,  and  its  loudly  demanded  en- 
core, were  over,  and  Madge  had  declined  the 
usual  invitations  to  drink,  she  sat  down  quietly 
at  Jim's  table.  Over  his  haggard  face  there 
spread  a  light  that  sent  a  sharp  pain  to  her 
heart.  He  not  only  loved,  but  trusted  her.  His 
welcoming  look  could  not  mean  anything  less. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Jim,"  she  said. 

"Glad — to — see  me?"  he  repeated  slowly. 
"Do  you  mean  that  you  are  glad  just  as  you 
are  to  see  any  one  else  you  know  in  this  place  ? 
It  is  the  sort  of  conventional  thing  people  say 
to  each  other  almost  without  knowing  it.  Do 
you  mean  more  than  that  ?" 

For  a  few  moments  she  did  not  reply.  Then, 
as  her  glance  wandered  about  the  room: 

"I  think  I  do." 


i32  THE  DESERTERS 

"You  do?"  he  broke  in  eagerly.  "Then  tell 
me  more.  I  did  not  keep  anything  from  you 
last  night.  I  told  you  that  I  intended  to  stay 
here,  in  San  Francisco,  because  you  are  here. 
I  asked  if  you  believed  in  love  at  first  sight. 
Whether  you  believe  it  or  not  makes  no  dif- 
ference. I  know  there  is  such  a  thing.  It  is 
keeping  me  here.  Madge!  You  said  I  must 
wait  till  to-night  before  you  would  speak.  I 
love  you,  Madge !  I'm  not  much,  of  course.  A 
girl  would  have  plenty  of  reason  for  saying 
that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  think  of  me 
— in  that  way.  But,  you  are  different.  I  want 
you,  sweetheart !  I  want  to  go  away  with  you, 
and  I'll  be  a  man  again,  for  your  sake.  I  will ! 
I  swear  it!  With  you  for  a  wife,  I  could " 

"Hush,  Jim!    That's  enough!" 

But  she  reached  for  his  hand  under  the  ta- 
ble, and  he  had  his  answer. 

Great  happiness  affects  men  in  various  ways. 
Jim  became  boisterous.  When  she  was  on  the 
platform  again,  his  voice  was  loudest  in  the 
rollicking  refrain,  and  he  held  the  final  note  to 
the  very  limit  of  the  piano  accompaniment. 

He  was  on  his  feet  when  Madge  finished. 
But  she  waved  him  back  with  a  tormenting  lit- 


SURRENDER  133 

tie  laugh,  and  began  another  song.  So  he  sat 
down  again  to  watch  her,  with  a  luxurious 
sense  of  ownership  that  challenged  her  every 
time  she  met  his  sparkling  gray  eyes. 

The  last  line  had  been  reached,  and  the 
company  was  roaring  and  shrieking  it  out,  ac- 
cording to  custom,  when  Madge  suddenly 
ceased  singing.  Up  to  that  moment  her  voice 
had  been  heard  above  all  the  others.  The 
chorus  dropped  painfully  when  no  longer  sus- 
tained by  her  full,  rich  tones. 

Jim  moved  in  his  chair,  as  if  to  go  to  her. 
He  felt  that  something  must  be  the  matter. 
As  he  saw  a  wave  of  pallor  sweep  across  her 
cheeks  under  the  rouge,  he  was  sure  of  it.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  something  down  the  room. 
He  followed  their  direction,  and  an  abrupt 
stoppage  of  his  heart  paled  his  own  face. 

Standing  just  inside  the  doorway,  his  back 
against  the  wicker  half  doors,  was  a  tall,  dark- 
visaged,  well-dressed  man,  with  a  cigarette  in 
his  mouth.  There  was  no  mistaking  his  mili- 
tary carriage.  When  he  strode  toward  the  bar, 
his  cavalry  walk  was  too  pronounced  not  to  be 
recognized.  A  soldier,  and  a  trooper,  every 
inch  of  him. 


134  THE   DESERTERS 

"Marston !"  muttered  Jim.  "What's  he  do- 
ing here  ?" 

Lieutenant  Marston  leaned  against  the  bar, 
and,  as  he  ordered  a  glass  of  beer,  coolly  sur- 
veyed everybody  in  the  long  room  with  an  im- 
personal stare.  He  met  the  gaze  of  Jim,  held 
it  for  an  instant,  and  passed  on  to  Reddy  and 
other  "regulars"  at  Reilly's.  Then  he  glanced 
at  Scroggs,  and  so  reached  Madge.  She  was 
trembling,  resting  one  hand  upon  the  piano. 
Marston  did  not  seem  to  know  her.  He  turned 
his  eyes  away  when  he  had  looked  her  over  to 
his  satisfaction.  Then  he  sipped  his  beer. 

"If  he's  after  me,  I'm  going  to  give  him  a 
chance  to  tell  me  so,"  decided  Jim. 

With  a  swagger  so  like  Marston's  that  any 
one  would  say  they  had  learned  it  at  the  same 
place,  he  walked  up  the  room  and  also  leaned 
against  the  bar.  There  was  not  more  than 
six  feet  of  space  between  the  two  men.  They 
stood  face  to  face  and  looked  at  each  other. 
Neither  betrayed  the  slightest  recognition. 
For  fully  half  a  minute  they  remained  thus. 
Then  Jim  leisurely  turned  away,  walked  to  the 
door  and  went  out. 

As  the  wicker  doors  slammed  behind  Jim, 


SURRENDER  135 

Marston  drank  the  remainder  of  his  beer  and 
took  another  cigarette  from  his  silver  case.  He 
was  lighting  it  at  the  gas-jet  on  the  bar  when 
Madge  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"Say,  mister,  won't  you  give  me  a  ciga- 
rette?" 

Her  bold  manner  and  tone  fitted  the  rouged 
cheeks  and  spangled  pink  frock.  Without  a 
word,  he  handed  her  the  silver  box.  Daintily 
she  took  out  a  cigarette.  She  shook  the  dust 
out  of  the  end  by  striking  the  hand  holding 
it  on  her  other  arm.  Meanwhile  she  looked  in- 
quiringly at  Marston. 

The  bartender,  who  had  been  standing  close 
to  them,  inside  the  bar,  moved  away  to  serve 
a  customer.  Then  she  spoke,  in  a  guarded 
tone: 

"Lieutenant  Marston?" 

"Yes." 

"I  saw  you  in  Colonel  Parsons'  office  last 
week." 

"Yes.    I  remember  you,  Miss — Miss " 

"Summers  is  my  name,"  she  interrupted. 
"You  were  sent  here  by  the  colonel,  weren't 
you?" 

"Yes." 


136  THE  DESERTERS 

"Well,  I  think  I've  got  our  man." 

"Have  you?    Where  is  he?" 

Lieutenant  Marston's  coolness  was  irritat- 
ing, but  Madge  would  not  allow  it  to  ruffle 
her.  So  she  answered  steadily : 

"It  was  the  tall  man  who  just  went  out.  I 
thought  I  saw  you  looking  at  him.  He  leaned 
against  the  bar  just  about  where  I  am  now." 

"Oh,  yes.    I  saw  him." 

"Well?" 

"He  was  not  the  man,"  said  Lieutenant 
Marston  imperturbably. 

"Not  the  man?  Not  Lieutenant  James 
Craig?" 

"No." 

"He  seemed  to  know  you." 

"I  don't  think  so.    I  never  saw  him  before." 

He  threw  away  the  end  of  the  cigarette  he 
had  been  smoking,  and  lighted  another. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Lieutenant  Marston, 
that  I  have  made  a  mistake  in  picking  out  this 
man  as  a  deserter?" 

"If  you  think  he  is  Craig,  you  are  mistaken," 
he  answered,  in  a  tone  of  finality.  "I  am  sorry 
for  your  sake,  Miss  Summers.  Colonel  Par- 
sons told  me,  just  before  I  left  the  post,  that 


SURRENDER 

you  never  had  been  known  to  slip  up.  But  the 
best  of  us  must  expect  failures  now  and  then. 
There  is  a  train  for  the  East  at  twelve  o'clock. 
I  shall  go  back  to-night.  Too  bad  you  have 
been  deceived  in  this  case.  But  you  may  land 
your  man  yet.  I  hope  so.  Any  message  for 
Colonel  Parsons,  Miss  Summers?" 

"Yes.  If  you  will  kindly  tell  the  colonel  that 
I  will  bring  Lieutenant  Craig  to  him  within  a 
month,  I  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you." 

"I  will  tell  him,  of  course.  Good  night,  Miss 
Summers." 

He  half  extended  his  hand.  Then,  as  she 
did  not  seem  to  see  it,  he  raised  it  in  military 
salute,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  marched  out, 
with  a  double  slam  of  the  spring  doors.  As 
he  disappeared,  Madge  dropped  to  the  floor 
the  cigarette  she  had  taken  from  the  silver 
box,  and  powdered  it  under  her  foot. 

"Who  was  that  guy,  Madge?"  asked  Reilly. 
"Looked  like  a  soldier." 

"A  man  I  met  once  in  the  East,"  she  re- 
plied carelessly. 

"I  don't  like  his  face." 

No  reply  to  this  blunt  remark  seemed  neces- 
sary, so  Madge  said  nothing.  She  started  the 


138  THE   DESERTERS 

merriment  going  again  with  more  music.  Un- 
til past  twelve  o'clock  she  sang  and  sang,  as  her 
contract  demanded.  Then,  when  she  had  given 
Reilly  full  measure  of  her  time,  and  something 
over,  she  put  on  the  long  cloak  that  she  wore 
out  of  doors,  and,  with  a  brief  "Good  night 
all!"  went  out. 

She  was  not  at  all  surprised  when  Jim  joined 
her  before  she  had  walked  a  block  toward  her 
hotel. 


CHAPTER  XI 
"GRAND  ROUNDS" 

I     WANT  to  talk  to  you." 
He  jerked  this   out   in  an  imperative 
tone.     But    she    knew  it  was  only  the 
straining  of  his  heart  that  hardened  his  voice. 
There  was  no  resentment  in  her  own  accents 
as  she  returned: 

"I  knew  you  would.  What  do  you  want  to 
say?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  just  how  to  begin.  And 
it  is  so  late.  Of  course,  you  want  to  go  home." 

"I  can  give  you  half  an  hour.  I  am  not 
afraid  to  walk  about  the  city  at  night.  No- 
body will  interfere  with  me  while  I  am  with 
you.  I  haven't  forgotten  what  you  did  to  Black 
Pete." 

"Oh,  that  fellow!"  he  said  scornfully.  "But 
I  can  promise  to  take  care  of  you  for  half  an 
hour.  I  wish  I  might  have  it  to  do  always." 

She  did  not  reply,  but,  as  they  walked  away 

139 


i4o  THE  DESERTERS 

in  the  direction  of  the  water  front,  she  asked : 

"Why  did  you  go  out  of  Reilly's  like  that  to- 
night? Was  it  because  you  recognized  that 
officer  standing  at  the  bar  ?  He  was  an  officer, 
as  any  one  could  see.  I  thought  you  looked  at 
him  as  if  you  had  met  before." 

"Yes,  he  is  an  officer.  I  had  met  him  be- 
fore. I  am — that  is,  I  was — in  his  regiment." 

"The  regiment  you  deserted?"  she  asked 
quietly. 

"Yes.  I  thought  he'd  come  to  take  me.  So 
I  went  up  to  him,  and  gave  him  every  oppor- 
tunity. But  he  wouldn't  show  that  he  knew  me. 
I  don't  know  why.  It  may  have  been  because  he 
did  not  want  the  trouble  of  having  me  arrested. 
Or  perhaps  he  thought  it  would  be  rather  a 
dirty  business." 

Madge's  hand,  which  held  Jim's  left  arm, 
trembled  a  little.  Probably  he  did  not  notice 
it.  He  continued: 

"When  I  had  stood  in  front  of  him  long 
enough  I  came  out,  because  I  wanted  fresh  air. 
I  could  not  breathe  well  indoors,  while  he  was 
in  the  place." 

"And  you  waited  for  me  ?" 

"Yes.    Seeing  that  man  made  me  think  of 


"GRAND   ROUNDS"  141 

all  I  have  lost — the  old  life,  the  regiment !  And 
the  hopelessness  of  it  was  too  much  for  me." 

"I  know/'  she  said  softly.  "But  don't  talk 
about  it — now.  Just  walk." 

Instead,  he  touched  the  fingers  resting 
lightly  on  his  coat  sleeve,  and  turned  so  that 
he  could  look  at  her  face  in  the  light  of  an 
arc-lamp  over  their  heads. 

"Doesn't  this  mean  that  I  have  you?"  he 
demanded  earnestly.  "I  thought  I  had.  That 
was  why  I  felt  as  if  I  must  see  you  now,  late 
as  it  is.  You  won't  turn  your  back  on  me, 
will  you?" 

Although  she  felt  her  face  grow  white  under 
the  rouge  and  powder — drabbled  into  patches 
after  being  on  all  the  evening  without  renewal 
— she  laughed  carelessly.  Then,  with  her 
broadest  brogue,  which  she  could  assume  at 
will,  she  returned: 

"Sure  now,  ye  ain't  thinkin'  I'd  be  leavin' 
a — pal,  do  ye?" 

His  face  changed  in  the  uncertain  blue  and 
violet  light  of  the  arc.  His  hand  closed  hard 
over  the  fingers  on  his  sleeve,  as  he  said 
brokenly : 

"Madge,  I  don't  want  you  as  a — pal.    You 


i42  THE   DESERTERS 

know  that.  It  is  cruel  of  you  to  say  it.  I  want 
you — want  you " 

She  tried  to  break  away  from  him  then.  But 
he  held  her  hand  so  tightly  that  the  rings  she 
wore  hurt  her.  She  did  not  heed  the  pain, 
however.  The  struggle  in  her  bosom,  that  had 
been  going  on  for  three  days  and  nights,  made 
her  oblivious  of  everything  else.  The  battle 
was  about  to  end.  Which  side  would  be  vic- 
torious— her  more  than  pity  for  this  man,  or 
her  strict  loyalty  to  the  Service  she  had  always 
loved  ? 

"Don't !  Don't !"  she  gasped,  trying  to  drag 
away.  "Let  me  go !" 

"Yes,  I  will  let  you  go!  Heaven  knows  I 
wouldn't  offend  you.  But — Madge — you  are 
everything  in  this  world  to  me.  You  are  all 
I  would  live  for.  I've  told  you  before.  Now, 
I  believe — I  think — I  know — that  you — you — 
I'm  not  wrong,  am  I  ?  You  do  lo " 

Why  is  it  that  nine  men  out  of  ten  hesitate 
to  use  the  word  "love,"  even  under  the  most 
violent  stress  of  the  glorious  passion?  But 
it  is  true.  They  never  will  employ  it  if  another 
expression  can  be  made  to  do.  Any  ordinary 
observer  can  testify  to  that. 


"GRAND    ROUNDS"  143 

"You  ask  if  I  love  you?"  she  said,  in  so  low 
a  tone  that  he  had  to  bend  far  down  to  hear 
her.  "You  say  you  love  me,  and  you  want  me 
to  say  that  I  love  you  ?" 

There  was  no  faltering  on  her  part  so  far  as 
uttering  the  word  was  concerned.  True  to  her 
sex,  she  liked  to  speak  it.  Clear  and  strong  it 
came  forth.  It  was  the  one  word  that  would 
express  what  they  were  discussing,  and  she 
saw  no  reason  for  cheating  it  of  its  right  to  be 
heard. 

"Yes,  Madge.  That  is  what  I  want.  Won't 
you  tell  me?" 

"If  I  tell  you  that,  you  must  answer  a  ques- 
tion I  am  going  to  put  to  you." 

In  an  instant  he  had  dropped  her  hand  and 
thrown  his  arms  around  her.  She  resisted  at 
first.  Then  she  yielded — long  enough  to  let 
him  feel  that  it  gave  the  assurance  for  which 
he  had  begged — and  broke  away. 

Only  to  lean,  breathless,  against  the  portal  of 
a  great,  dark  warehouse — a  place  which  would 
shriek  with  rude  activity  in  the  daylight,  but 
was  ghostly  in  its  gloom  and  emptiness  at  this, 
the  deadest  hour  of  the  night. 


144  THE  DESERTERS 

"I  didn't  frighten  you,  did  I,  Madge?"  he 
asked  penitently. 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head  at  him  in 
playful  reproof. 

"No,  no!  I  suppose  you  felt  it  was  your 
right.  Even  though  I  did  not  say  exactly  what 
you  asked  for.  Let  us  go  on.  If  a  policeman 
should  happen  to  come  along,  he  might  think 
we  were  planning  to  break  into  this  building." 

"So  he  might.  We'll  go  anywhere  you  like. 
I  don't  care.  I  feel  so  light,  I  could  walk 
across  the  top  of  the  bay,  I  believe." 

"You  needn't  do  that.  You  might  get 
splashed,"  she  laughed. 

But  her  laughter  soon  died  away.  As  they 
left  the  narrow  thoroughfare  in  which  they 
had  been  talking  and  struck  into  the  broad 
reaches  of  Market  Street,  she  said,  in  a  seri- 
ous tone,  looking  straight  before  her : 

"Jim,  why  don't  you  tell  me  your  last 
name?" 

"My  last  name?"  he  repeated.  "Why,  it's 
Craig.  I  thought  you  knew  that,  when  I  told 
you  that  Lieutenant  Marston — the  man  who 
was  in  Reilly's  to-night — was  an  officer  in  my 


"GRAND   ROUNDS"  145 

old  regiment.  I  was  a  second  lieutenant — un- 
til—until  " 

"I  see."  She  was  quiet  for  some  time.  Sud- 
denly: "It  seems  to  me  that  you  must  have 
wished  this  Lieutenant  Marston  would  tell  you 
he'd  come  for  you.  If  he  had  done  so,  you 
could  have  gone  away  with  him.  Then,  in  a 
few  weeks  how  happy  you  would  be,  back  in 
the  old  regiment,  with  your  brother  officers, 
and  the  men  of  your  troop!  What  an  uplift 
it  would  give  you  to  feel  that  your  honor  was 
clean  and  untarnished  again.  For  it  would  be, 
you  know.  The  stain  would  be  off  as  soon  as 
you  had  gone  through  the  punishment  laid 
down  by  the  Regulations,  and " 

He  looked  at  her  so  curiously  that  she 
stopped  speaking. 

"You  know  what  the  Regulations  are,  eh?" 
he  said.  "You  must  have  studied  military 
terms." 

"I  have.  These  are  days  of  advanced  and 
technical  education  for  women.  Among  other 
things,  a  passing  acquaintance  with  the  meth- 
ods of  the  army  and  navy  is  expected  of  us. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  my  father  was  a  soldier, 


i46  THE  DESERTERS 

and  I  suppose  that  makes  me  particularly  inter- 
ested." 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Don't  you  think  I  am  right  in  my  opinion 
that  your  happiness,  as  well  as  your  duty,  tells 
you  to  go  back?" 

"Perhaps!"  he  returned  absently,  and  kept 
silent. 

The  steady  look  she  gave  him  seemed  to  stir 
up  passions  he  had  been  trying  to  hold  down, 
for  soon  he  began  to  talk  again — in  that  sub- 
dued, even  way  which  is  the  surest  index  of 
intense  emotion. 

"Girl,  I  can't  go  back — now !"  he  said.  "You 
are  holding  me  away." 

"I  don't  want  to  do  that.  Oh,  Jim!  Any- 
thing but  that!" 

"Rot!"  he  interrupted  roughly.  "Girl,  can't 
you  see  that  remaining  here  with  you  is  more 
to  me  than  all  the  armies  of  the  universe? 
When  a  man  and  a  woman  come  from  op- 
posite ends  of  the  earth,  knowing  nothing  of 
each  other,  not  even  names,  and  when,  after 
seeing  each  other  only  two  or  three  times,  in 
a  place  like  Reilly's,  they  stand,  after  midnight, 
in  a  lonely  street,  face  to  face,  soul  to  soul, 


"GRAND    ROUNDS"  147 

with  not  even  a  strip  of  the  world  between 
them — don't  you  realize  what  it  means  ?  Why, 
when  I  first  saw  you  in  there,  singing,  after 
we  had  exchanged  only  a  few  sentences,  I  be- 
came mad!  It  was  all  I  could  do  not  to  rush 
up  to  the  platform,  crush  you  to  my  heart,  and 
say,  before  them  all:  'This  is  my  Woman!' ' 

"Don't,  Jim,  don't!" 

"Why  not?  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it  now. 
We  have  exchanged  vows,  you  and  I — if  not 
in  words,  at  least  in  effect.  I  may  tell  you 
how  I've  felt  from  the  first.  And  when  I  do, 
you  can  see  that  no  army  can  claim  me,  not 
even  if  it  were  to  make  me  a  major-general." 

It  was  useless  to  try  to  stem  the  torrent  of 
his  self-revelation.  She  could  only  let  him 
keep  on  till  he  had  finished — not  all  that  was 
in  his  mind,  but  as  much  as  he  could  put  into 
speech  at  the  time.  They  did  not  talk  any 
more  about  the  army.  Instead,  he  told  her  that 
he  would  get  employment  in  San  Francisco, 
and,  as  soon  as  he  was  settled,  they  would  be 
married.  He  had  enough  income  from  prop- 
erty in  the  East  to  keep  himself,  he  said.  But 
it  would  not  do  when  he  had  her.  She  must 
live  better  than  would  be  possible  on  what  he 


148  THE   DESERTERS 

had.    No  shabby  genteel  poverty  for  his  wife. 

"But  I  have  a  little  money,"  she  told  him. 

He  waved  that  away. 

"Have  you?  So  much  the  better.  It  will 
buy  you  things  you  may  want  that  you  don't 
care  to  ask  me  for.  But — what  about  Reilly's  ? 
You  won't  keep  on  singing  there?  I  couldn't 
stand  that." 

"To-morrow  will  be  my  last  night.  Reilly 
knows.  It  will  end  my  week." 

"And  after  that " 

"After  that — I  have  some  work  to  do  at 
home.  But,  Jim,  how  is  it  you  can  care  for 
such  a  girl  as  I  am  ?  A  singer  in  a  low  saloon, 
for  Reilly's  is  low.  It  has  the  reputation  of 
being  the  toughest  dive  on  the  Barbary  Coast, 
and  I  guess  it  deserves  the  name.  You  have 
seen  me  there,  and  you  have  heard  me  sing  all 
kinds  of  songs.  Some  of  them  you  would  not 
hear  in  a " 

"Sunday-school?"  he  interrupted  smiling. 
"Well,  no — hardly.  But  that  is  nothing  to  me. 
I  know  you  sang  them  only  because  it  was 
part  of  your  regular  work.  Anyhow,  what  has 
that  to  do  with  the  case?  If  you  have  done 


"GRAND   ROUNDS"  149 

things  you  don't  care  to  talk  about — why,  so 
have  I." 

"But,"  she  hesitated,  "there  may  be  some- 
thing else,  besides  the  songs  at  Reilly's." 

"You  couldn't  tell  me  anything  that  would 
change  my  love  for  you  a  hair's  breadth,"  he 
declared,  with  the  impetuosity  she  liked  so 
much.  "If  there's  been  something  in  your 
life — some  mistake,  I  don't  want  to  know.  I'll 
never  question  you.  We  start  square  from  to- 
night, and  what  we've  been  or  done  needn't 
count." 

"Oh,  but  it  does  count,"  she  insisted.  "It 
counts  for  good  or  for  evil.  You're  wrong 
about  one  thing  you're  thinking,  though. 
There  never  was  any  one  else.  No  one  but 
you — no  one  but  you,  dear." 

How  it  thrilled  him  when  she  used  that  last 
tender  word!  It  fell  from  her  lips  seemingly 
without  set  intention,  the  natural  expression  of 
the  love  that  she  did  not  try  to  conceal. 

"I  didn't  suppose  there  was  anything — of 
that  kind,"  he  assured  her.  "In  fact,  I  was 
thinking  rather  of  my  own  miserable  mis- 
takes  " 

"Let  them  pass,    Jim.      There  is  nothing 


150  THE  DESERTERS 

gained  by  brooding  over  errors.  Let  the  dead 
past  bury  its  dead.  Here  is  where  I  live." 

She  had  stopped  in  front  of  her  hotel.  The 
building,  although  not  very  large,  was  unmis- 
takably aristocratic.  Jim  looked  thoughtfully 
at  the  impressive  portico  and  the  ornamental 
windows  and  doors. 

"You  live  here?    At  the  Waldemar?" 

"Yes.  It  is  a  nice,  quiet  hotel.  I  shouldn't 
care  to  stay  at  any  other  kind." 

She  knew  what  was  in  his  mind,  even  before 
he  ventured  hesitatingly : 

"It  is  rather  expensive,  I  should  say."  Then, 
as  he  recalled  what  she  had  told  him:  "But 
you  have  an  income  of  your  own.  You  do  not 
depend  altogether  on  your  singing?" 

"Not  altogether.  Mr.  Reilly  does  not  pay 
large  salaries." 

There  was  a  pause.  Both  seemed  to  be  em- 
barrassed. He,  because  he  could  not  crush 
back  instantly  an  ugly  suspicion,  and  she,  be- 
cause she  felt  it  was  there.  But  it  was  only 
for  a  moment.  She  met  his  eye  fearlessly,  and 
he  seemed  to  hear  her  saying — as  she  had  said 
just  before,  in  that  truthful  voice  of  hers: 
"There  never  was  any  one  else." 


"GRAND    ROUNDS"  151 

It  was  enough.  The  evil  thought  conjured 
up  by  his  own  remark,  "You  do  not  depend  al- 
together on  your  singing,"  melted  away.  He 
hated  himself  for  giving  it  lodgement,  even 
for  an  instant. 

"Will  you  come  and  see  me  to-morrow  after- 
noon?" she  asked  abruptly. 

It  was  what  he  had  been  hoping  for,  yet 
without  wholly  expecting  it. 

"Who — who — shall  I  ask  for?  Have  you 
forgotten  that  I've  never  heard  your  full 
name?" 

"Tell  the  clerk  you  want  to  see  Miss  Sum- 
mers. He  will  have  you  shown  up  to  my  sit- 
ting-room." 

"What  time  may  I  come?" 

"Four  o'clock  to-morrow — no,  this  after- 
noon. It  is  one  o'clock  now." 

She  went  in  at  the  side  entrance.  Jim  Craig 
walked  about  the  streets  till  nearly  three  be- 
fore finally  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  his 
little  hall  room,  a  mile  away  from  her  hotel. 
It  was  the  first  time,  since  his  coming  to  San 
Francisco,  that  he  had  entered  it  in  anything 
approaching  good  spirits. 


CHAPTER  XII 
"ON  GUARD  !" 

WHEN  Jim  Craig  presented  himself  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  office  of  the  Hotel 
Waldemar  he  had  changed  his  appear- 
ance to  such  a  degree  that  people  accustomed 
to  seeing  him  at  Reilly's  and  in  kindred  en- 
vironment hardly  would  have  recognized  him. 
It  was  not  only  that  he  had  been  to  a  tailor 
and  had  his  clothing  pressed,  nor  that  he  had 
been  careful  to  see  that  his  linen  was  immacu- 
late, and  that  every  other  detail  of  his  dress 
was  in  perfect  condition.  All  this  he  had  done 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

The  most  noticeable  difference  was  in  his 
attitude  and  bearing.  Gone  was  the  slouch 
with  which  he  had  moved  about  the  streets. 
It  had  given  way  to  a  firm,  soldierly  tread — 
the  swagger  of  the  cavalryman  that  had  at- 
tracted Madge's  attention  the  first  night  she 

152 


"ON    GUARD"  153 

saw  him  at  Reilly's.  His  head  was  well  up, 
and  when  he  told  the  clerk  to  announce  him 
to  Miss  Summers,  the  sonorous  roll  in  his  voice 
reminded  one  of  orders  given  out  of  doors. 

Above  all,  there  was  that  in  his  face  which 
spoke  of  some  happiness  already  attained,  with 
much  more  on  the  horizon. 

She  had  prepared  the  clerk  for  his  coming, 
and  there  was  no  delay  in  the  call  for  "Front !" 
followed  by  "Show  the  gentleman  to  Number 
Four  Hundred  and  One." 

Jim  Craig  blinked  uncertainly  when  the  door 
of  Number  Four  Hundred  and  One  was 
opened.  A  quiet,  well-bred  young  lady,  dressed 
in  perfect  taste,  stepped  forward  to  greet  him. 
Only  that  he  knew  the  smile  of  Madge  so  well, 
he  might  not  have  believed  at  once  that  this 
really  was  the  girl  he  had  clasped  in  his  arms 
in  the  dark  street  a  little  more  than  twelve 
hours  before.  He  had  associated  her  so  en- 
tirely with  the  rouge  and  powder,  the  short, 
spangled  pink  frock,  the  vulgar  imitation  jew- 
elry and  the  brazen  demeanor  of  the  singing 
girl  at  Reilly's,  that  he  had  not  looked  for  this. 

Not  that  he  had  expected  her  to  be  still 
rouged  and  painted,  and  he  knew  that  she  did 


154  THE   DESERTERS 

not  wear  the  short-skirted  pink  dress  in  the 
daytime.  Nevertheless,  the  Miss  Summers  of 
this  afternoon  was  so  entirely  the  opposite  of 
Madge  of  Reilly's  that  it  was  hard  to  recon- 
cile the  two.  He  had  not  done  it  when  he  found 
her  hand  in  his,  as  she  led  him  to  a  chair  by  the 
window  and  sat  by  his  side. 

"Madge!"  he  blurted  out,  at  last.  "I  didn't 
know  how  beautiful  you  were  till  this  moment." 

"Ridiculous!"  she  laughed.  "Why,  I  have 
nothing  on  to  make  me  even  ordinarily  attrac- 
tive. No  powder,  no  rouge,  no  jewelry,  and  in 
this  plain  gray  gown  I'm  afraid  you  are  not 
much  of  a  judge  of  a  woman's  looks,  Jim." 

"I  don't  judge  yours,  dear.     I  only  admire." 

How  big  and  handsome  he  was,  as  he  leaned 
forward  in  his  chair,  with  that  stiff  grace  natu- 
ral to  the  well-set-up  trooper !  He  might  have 
been  in  the  saddle,  in  that  attitude.  The  fact 
that  he  never  forgot  what  it  was  to  sit  horse- 
back showed  in  every  involuntary  movement. 

"There's  no  use  arguing  about  it,"  thought 
Madge.  "The  army  must  not  lose  such  a  splen- 
did soldier.  He's  got  to  go  back!"  Then, 
aloud :  "It's  dangerous  to  admire  any  woman 
too  much,  Jim." 


"ON   GUARD"  155 

"Dangerous ?  Why,  who  is  it  likely  to  hurt? 
Her — or  him  ?" 

"Both." 

She  said  this  musingly,  without  looking  at 
him.  Her  gaze  was  on  her  favorite  view  from 
the  window — the  restless,  flirting,  sunlit  waters 
that  roll  in  and  out  of  the  Golden  Gate. 

It  was  with  a  tender  smile  that  he  replied : 

"That  may  be  true  in  a  general  way,  Madge. 
But  it  cannot  apply  to  you  and  me.  If  I  had 
not  let  my  admiration  and  longing  sweep  me 
away,  I  don't  think  I  should  have  had  the  nerve 
to  wait  for  you  last  night.  Danger  ?  I  should 
like  to  know  what  danger  can  come  from  a 
man  worshipping  the  woman  he  is  going  to 
marry." 

"Jim!    Don't!" 

She  shrank  from  him  as  if  the  danger  she 
had  hinted  at  were  already  there.  He  raised 
his  eyes  in  surprise.  But  only  for  a  second.  A 
good-looking  young  man  of  the  world,  and  an 
army  officer  at  that,  cannot  be  innocent  of  femi- 
nine caprices.  Seeing  them  repeated  in  one 
girl  after  another,  he  gets  to  know  them  as 
well  as  he  does  the  "tactics"  drummed  into  him 
at  West  Point. 


156  THE  DESERTERS 

"Why  don't?"  he  asked  softly.  "We  are  to 
be  married.  Surely  a  man  may  be  permitted 
to  contemplate  his  happiness  in  advance.  Now, 
what  is  the  danger  you  insist  on  ?" 

But  she  could  not  tell  him — yet.  Marston's 
refusal  to  identify  him  meant  nothing  more 
to  her  than  that  officer  had  his  own  personal 
reasons  for  lying.  What  those  reasons  were 
Madge  did  not  know,  but  she  was  sure  they 
existed  even  when  she  had  seen  him  in  Colonel 
Parsons'  room.  It  had  struck  her  then  that  he 
would  like  to  spoil  her  work  if  he  could.  He 
had  given  up  the  photograph  of  Lieutenant 
Craig  grudgingly,  and  only  at  the  direct  re- 
quest of  Colonel  Parsons — from  whom  it  was 
tantamount  to  a  command. 

Coming  to  San  Franciso  under  orders,  he 
had  had  an  opportunity  to  study  the  features  of 
the  deserter  at  close  range — and  had  deliber- 
ately declared  he  was  not  the  man.  Yet  Jim 
had  confessed  to  her  that  he  was.  What  was 
she  to  do? 

"Jim,  dear  ?"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  earnest- 
ness. "Say  you  love  me,  won't  you?" 

His  answer  was  to  look  swiftly  about  the 
room — a  natural,  but  unnecessary,  precaution 


"ON    GUARD"  157 

— and  clasp  her  tightly  in  his  arms.  She  sub- 
mitted, for  his  embrace  was  very  sweet  to  her. 
Then  she  broke  away  gently. 

"No,  I  want  you  to  say  in  words,  plainly, 
that  you  love  me." 

"I  do  say  it,  Madge.  I'll  say  it  a  thousand 
times  if  you  think  you  won't  be  tired  of  hearing 
it.  I  love  you,  Madge.  I  love  you." 

"Yes.  That  is  what  I  wanted.  You  love 
me!" 

"Love  you  and  trust  you — more  than  I  trust 
myself." 

Again  that  shrinking  away  that  he  could  not 
understand. 

"No,  no !  Not  that,  Jim !  You  must  not  say 
that!" 

"I  must  say  it!"  he  insisted.  "I  trust  you 
with  my  heart.  I  am  willing  to  trust  you  with 
my— life." 

"No,  no !"  she  repeated,  and  her  breath  came 
short,  as  if  something  were  holding  her  heart 
to  prevent  it  beating.  "No,  no,  I  tell  you !" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  again,  in  spite  of 
her  struggles.  With  his  face  very  near  to  hers, 
he  whispered : 

"Dear,  I'm  afraid  I  must  kick  out  of  line 


158  THE   DESERTERS 

here,  even  if  I'm  court-martialed  for  disobey- 
ing orders.  You'll  have  to  let  me  go  on  trust- 
ing. You're  all  I  have,  you  know." 

"But — I've  admitted  that  there  are  secrets 
in  my  life.  Not  the  kind  you  seemed  to  fear 
last  night.  There  never  was  another  man. 
But  this  is  a  strange  world,  dear.  A  woman 
may  have  done  things  that  she  hides  from  her 
lover  which  have  nothing  to  do  with  what  he 
may  most  fear." 

"I  don't  care " 

"Suppose  I  were  a  thief?" 

"Impossible!" 

"Yes,  I  think  that  would  be  impossible.  It 
is  not  that.  But  if  I  were  a  murderer?" 

He  dropped  his  arms  from  her  and  fell  back 
as  if  she  had  struck  him  in  the  face. 

"A  murderer  ?"  he  gasped. 

She  laughed  at  his  sudden  look  of  horror. 

"I  am  not  that,  I  assure  you.  I  never  killed 
anybody  in  my  life,  and  I  don't  think  I  ever 
could — not  intentionally,  at  least.  You  needn't 
turn  away." 

His  broad  back  was  toward  her,  as  he  stared 
out  of  the  window.  He  seemed  to  be  inter- 


"ON   GUARD"  159 

ested  in  watching  a  ferry-boat  churning  its 
way  across  the  bay  from  Oakland. 

"Jim!" 

He  swung  around  swrftly.  She  was  horri- 
fied. In  the  few  moments  his  face  had  been 
hidden  from  her  it  seemed  to  have  taken  on 
the  lines  and  gray  pallor  of  an  old  man — one 
who  had  known  more  than  the  common  share 
of  suffering.  His  lips  twitched.  He  put  up  his 
hand,  trying  to  still  them. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  she  almost  screamed. 
"Are  you  ill?" 

"No — not  exactly.  I — I — haven't  been  liv- 
ing right  since  I  came  to  San  Francisco.  I 
have  been  turning  night  into  day  and  drinking 
too  much.  Nature  will  take  its  toll,  you  know. 
I  have  stopped  all  such  foolishness  now,  but 
I  shall  have  to  pay  for  what  I've  done.  Re- 
morse won't  save  me.  It  is  the  same  about — 
about — other  things  we  may  have  done.  Pun- 
ishment must  come,  sooner  or  later.  I  suppose 
I  was  a  little  faint.  But  I'm  all  right  now." 

Indeed,  his  natural  color  was  returning,  and 
he  smiled  like  his  usual  self  as  he  took  her  hand. 

"It  is  true,  Jim,"  she  said  slowly.  "Punish- 
ment must  come  sooner  or  later.  Especially 


i6o  THE   DESERTERS 

when  there  is  deceit.  But  let  us  talk  about 
something  else.  You  love  me,  and  that  is  the 
principal  thing,  after  all." 

"Yes,  love  and  trust  you,"  he  responded, 
drawing  her  to  him. 

She  did  not  take  issue  with  him  again  on  the 
word  "trust."  If  he  insisted  on  it,  why  should 
she  be  obstinate?  At  all  events,  she  de- 
cided, with  a  touch  of  weariness,  time  would 
convince  him  one  way  or  the  other. 

They  talked  of  other  things  for  more  than 
an  hour.  Lovers  who  have  just  come  to  an 
understanding  never  want  for  topics.  It  was 
nearly  half-past  five  when  she  said,  as  she 
looked  at  her  silver  traveling  clock  on  the 
mantel : 

"My  gracious,  Jim !  Look  at  the  time !  You 
must  go  now,  dear.  I  have  to  dress  for  my 
last  night  at  Reilly's,  and — and " 

"And  you  must  have  your  dinner.  Won't 
you  dine  with  me  ?  There's  a  good  restaurant 
in  this  hotel,  I  know.  Isn't  that  where  you 
generally  have  your  meals?" 

"No.  Always  here  in  my  room — very  often 
with  Mrs.  Billings,  the  housekeeper.  I  don't 
care  to  go  down  to  the  public  dining-room.  I'll 


"ON    GUARD"  161 

tell  you  what.  You  shall  have  dinner  here  with 
me — on  one  condition." 

"Name  your  terms,"  he  laughed.  "They'll 
have  to  be  mighty  hard  to  make  me  decline." 

"They  are  not  hard  at  all.  Only  that  you'll 
promise  to  go  as  soon  as  we've  finished  din- 
ner. And  we  must  not  be  long  over  it,  either." 

"Very  well,  dear.  I'll  do  it.  But — must 
you  go  to  Reilly's  to-night  ?  To  have  all  those 
wretches  making  free  with  you,  and  you  sing- 
ing for  their  amusement?  How  I  do  hate  the 
thought  of  it!" 

"Not  more  than  I  do.  But  this  is  the  last 
night.  And  you  can  be  there,  to  see  that — 
that — I  don't  elope  with  'Reddy'  or  Scroggs!" 

"Don't  laugh,  dear,"  he  pleaded.  "It  is  all 
so  awful  to  me.  I  won't  be  there  until  it  is 
time  for  you  to  come  home.  You'll  find  me 
outside  the  door,  waiting." 

So  it  was  settled.  Madge's  own  particular 
waiter  brought  up  their  dinner,  in  response  to 
her  telephoned  order.  They  enjoyed  it  sitting 
by  the  window,  where  they  could  watch  the  red 
sun  going  down  in  the  waters  of  the  far-away 
Pacific.  He  kissed  her  when  he  left.  She  no- 
ticed that  his  lips  were  burning  hot. 


162  THE  DESERTERS 

Madge  appeared  at  Reilly's  as  usual — pink 
frock,  rouge,  imitation  jewelry  and  all — and 
sang  as  gaily  as  ever.  It  was  the  generally 
expressed  opinion  that  she  never  had  put  more 
"deviltry"  into  her  work,  and  Scroggs  asked 
her  quietly  whether  some  one  had  just  left 
her  a  million.  When  Reilly  paid  her,  she  gave 
the  money  to  Scroggs.  With  tears  in  his  eyes, 
Scroggs  hoped  somebody  really  had  left  her  a 
fortune. 

Reilly  did  not  let  her  go  without  protest.  He 
offered  her  twice  the  salary  he  had  been  pay- 
ing if  she  would  stay  only  another  week.  He 
well  knew  she  would  draw  enough  extra  pat- 
ronage to  make  it  a  good  investment.  But 
Madge  said  she  had  other  business  that  she 
must  attend  to  before  going  back  East.  She 
could  not  sing  any  more  this  time. 

"Very  well,"  was  Reilly's  resigned  response, 
when  he  found  her  mind  was  made  up.  "When 
you  come  to  town  again,  you  will  give  me  a 
week  or  two,  won't  you  ?" 

"Maybe,"  she  replied. 

After  saying  good-by  to  Scroggs,  she  went 
out  of  Reilly's  forever. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

KEEPING  ST£P 

IT  was  settled  between  them  that  they  would 
be  married  when  Jim  had  got  fairly  down 
to  work  in  the  office  of  the  importing 
house  of  Morgan,  Jones  &  Co.,  where  he  had 
been  promised  employment.  Evan  Morgan, 
the  head  of  the  firm,  had  been  a  friend  of 
Jim's  father  many  years  before.  He  was  glad 
to  do  what  he  could  for  the  son.  So  a  vacancy- 
was  found,  and  Jim  went  to  work  in  less  than 
a  week  after  Madge  had  sung  for  the  last  time 
at  Reilly's. 

Mr.  Morgan  was  a  prosaic  man  of  business. 
He  had  no  particular  sentiment  about  the 
army.  Not  but  that  he  approved  it.  The  army 
was  a  good  thing — a  necessary  institution,  of 
course.  It  gave  him  a  comfortable,  patriotic 
feeling  when  he  remembered  that,  as  a  tax- 
payer, he  helped  to  keep  it  up.  But  it  did  not 
interest  him  when  Jim  Craig  told  him  he  had 

163 


164  THE   DESERTERS 

been  a  soldier.  He  did  not  even  take  the 
trouble  to  inquire  whether  he  had  been  a  pri- 
vate or  an  officer.  What  did  it  matter?  Jim 
soon  proved  himself  to  be  a  good  clerk,  and 
that  was  all  he  cared  about. 

Jim  saw  Madge  nearly  every  evening.  The 
attaches  of  the  hotel  got  to  know  him,  and 
took  a  friendly  interest  in  the  romance  grow- 
ing under  their  noses.  Now  that  Madge  had 
given  up  the  pink  frock  and  rouge,  she  did  not 
mind  being  seen  about  the  house.  Only  Mrs. 
Billings  had  the  secret  of  her  occupation  and 
the  strange  places  into  which  it  sometimes  led 
her.  If  the  sleek,  conservative  clerk  behind 
the  counter  in  the  hotel  office  had  been  told  she 
used  to  sing  at  Reilly's,  he  would  have  called 
his  informant  a  liar. 

Madge  and  Jim  often  dined  together  in  the 
Hotel  restaurant.  Sometimes  they  went  into 
the  public  parlor,  where  Jim,  at  the  piano, 
rattled  off  music  that  he  had  been  used  to  play 
for  his  brother  officers — in  those  careless  days 
when  he  had  no  idea  he  ever  would  become  a 
deserter. 

On  Saturday  afternoons  and  Sundays  they 
took  long  walks  in  the  park.  Occasionally 


KEEPING   STEP  165 

they  went  there  on  other  evenings.  They  did 
not  meet  except  at  those  times.  Jim  was  at  his 
desk  in  the  importing  house  for  many  hours 
every  day. 

For  a  month  this  went  on.  Jim  had  little 
time  to  brood  over  the  crime  that  had  ended 
his  army  life,  and  he  was  happy  in  the  hope 
that  he  would  soon  be  married.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  about  the  kind  of  house  he  meant 
to  live  in  with  Madge.  He  described  it  to  her 
in  detail  one  evening,  as  they  strolled  through 
the  park  under  the  arching  elms. 

"You  know,  dear,"  he  said,  "we  are  going 
to  have  a  little  white  cottage,  with  a  big  open 
fireplace,  trees  outside,  and  roses  growing  at 
all  the  windows — peeking  in  to  see  how  happy 
we  are." 

"It  will  have  to  be  in  the  country,  then,"  she 
reminded  him.  "You  don't  find  white  cottages 
and  climbing  roses  in  the  city — not  even  in 
California.  Ah,  how  I  wish  it  could  be  true!" 

"It  will  be  true,"  he  assured  her.  "And 
very  soon,  too." 

"How  soon?"  she  asked  timidly. 

"What  do  you  say  to  next  month?  I'm 
making  good  with  Morgan,  Jones  &  Co.,  and 


i66  THE  DESERTERS 

I  get  a  raise  of  salary  next  week — a  big  one. 
That's  what  I  had  to  tell  you  this  evening. 
You  may  have  observed  that  there  was  some- 
thing important  on  my  chest.  Now  I've  got 
it  off." 

It  pleased  him  to  see  that  she  smiled  in  sym- 
pathy with  his  playful  tone.  But  there  was 
perplexity — even  terror — in  her  eyes,  as,  in  si- 
lence, she  gazed  down  the  long  vista  of  trees. 
She  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time.  But  he  did 
not  mind  that,  for  her  slim,  white  fingers  were 
on  his  arm,  and  the  bottom  of  her  skirt  brushed 
his  shoe  as  they  walked.  When  she  was  close 
to  him  conversation  did  not  matter.  You  see, 
Jim  Craig  was  a  conventional  lover  in  the 


mam. 

u 


Jim,  I  think  I  shall  have  to  go  home  to  the 
hotel/'  she  said  at  last.  "I'm  not  very  well." 

Instantly  he  was  all  anxiety. 

"Not  well?  What  is  it — headache?  You 
are  not  seriously  ill,  are  you?  Let  us  go  to  a 
drug  store  and  get  something.  It's  been  hot 
to-day.  You  don't  look  as  well  as  usual.  I 
can  see  it  now." 

She  was  obliged  to  wait  till  he  paused  in 
his  rush  of  questions,  comments  and  sugges- 


KEEPING  STEP  167 

tions.  Then,  as  he  bent  down  to  look  into  her 
face,  she  reassured  him  with: 

"It  is  only  a  headache,  dear.  I  suppose  it  is 
from  the  heat,  I'll  go  home  and  lie  down. 
That  will  cure  me.  It  always  does/' 

"But  you  can't  be  in  your  room  alone.  You 
ought  to  have  somebody  to  take  care  of  you." 

"Mrs.  Billings  will  come  in.  She  is  always 
very  kind." 

"Mrs.  Billings !  H'm !"  he  sniffed  jealously. 
"Well,  another  month,  and  you'll  find  that  I 
can  be  a  good  nurse,  too." 

"I'm  sure  of  it,  dear." 

"I'll  prove  it  to  you.  Well,  no.  I  don't  want 
to  do  that,  either,  because  I  couldn't  unless  you 
were  sick.  I'd  rather  have  you  take  my  word 
as  to  my  nursing  abilities.  But  it  will  have 
to  be  next  month.  Don't  forget  that,  dear." 

There  was  a  sudden  check  to  his  volubility 
when  Madge  said  quietly  and  distinctly : 

"Jim,  that  would  be  impossible." 

"What?" 

"Next  month,"  she  replied. 

"But " 

"It  cannot  be  next  month,  nor  the  month 
after.  Perhaps  it  never  may  be.  Oh,  my 


i68  THE   DESERTERS 

dear,  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  love 
you.  But  we  cannot  order  everything-  as  we 
please." 

"We  can  order  that,  Madge,"  he  insisted. 
"Consider!  No  one  can  interfere.  You  are 
turned  twenty-one,  and  your  own  mistress. 
Very  well,  then.  That  must  settle  it.  As  for 
me,  I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  of  course.  I 
know  that.  But — you  believe  in  me,  and — 
and — I  think  you  love  me.  It  sounds  like  a 
caddish  thing  for  a  man  to  say.  But  I  am  only 
repeating  your  own  word." 

"Yes,  dear — my  own  word !" 

"Then,  with  all  that  clear,  what  is  to  pre- 
vent our  going  to  a  minister  in  a  month — as 
soon  as  I  can  find  and  furnish  that  white  cot- 
tage? I  can't  fancy  any  objection.  And  I 
don't  believe  you  can.  That  is,  one  that  will 
hold  water." 

A  low  sob  was  her  only  response.  She  held 
his  arm  a  little  tighter  and  quickened  her  pace. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  were  in  a  hurry  to  get 
home.  He  supposed  her  head  ached  badly  and 
that  she  was  anxious  to  lie  down.  So  he  hur- 
ried when  she  did,  and  soon  they  were  at  the 
hotel,  at  the  side  entrance  she  had  always  used 


KEEPING  STEP  169 

when  going  to  and  from  Reilly's.  As  he  took 
her  two  hands  in  his,  in  farewell,  he  whis- 
pered : 

"Good  night!  To-morrow  will  be  Satur- 
day. I  will  come  at  one  o'clock,  and  we  can 
have  luncheon  together.  Then  we  will  go  for 
a  boat  ride.  The  bay  is  beautiful  in  this 
weather.  We  shall  have  a  jolly  afternoon, 
come  back  to  the  hotel  for  dinner  and  go  to  a 
theatre  afterward." 

But  she  shook  her  head — sadly,  it  seemed  to 
him — as  she  returned : 

"No,  dear.  Don't  come  until  the  evening. 
I  want  to  rest  till  then.  Besides,  I  have  some 
work  to  do,  and  I  can't  spare  time  for  you  in 
the  afternoon." 

She  winced  as  his  face  showed  how  disap- 
pointed he  was.  Their  Saturday  afternoons 
had  been  so  happy.  He  looked  forward  to 
them  as  the  holiday-time  of  each  week.  But 
he  knew  it  was  not  her  way  to  do  things  with- 
out sound  reason.  So  he  merely  said : 

"I  am  very  sorry  I  cannot  come  in  the  after- 
noon, Madge.  But,  if  it  will  be  better  for 
your  head,  I  should  be  a  brute  to  complain. 
As  for  the  work,  I  suppose  it  must  be  done. 


i;o  THE   DESERTERS 

Ladies  always  have  a  bunch  of  needlework  on 
their  hands,  and  it's  best  to  do  it  by  daylight. 
Anyhow,  the  evening  will  be  mine,  won't  it?" 

"Yes,  Jim,  the  evening  will  be  yours." 

With  the  sad  smile  he  had  noticed  before, 
she  went  into  the  hotel.  Jim  waited  till  the 
colored  porter  had  closed  the  door.  Then  he 
went  away,  to  idle  along  the  waterfront  until 
bedtime.  He  was  not  much  worried  about 
Madge's  headache,  because  really  it  did  not 
seem  severe.  But,  oh,  how  many  weary  hours 
before  he  would  see  her  the  next  evening! 

Of  late  Madge  had  been  using  the  elevator 
to  go  to  and  from  her  rooms  in  the  hotel.  On 
this  night  she  went  up  the  stairs.  Something 
impelled  her  to  do  things  as  she  had  done  them 
in  the  week  that  she  first  met  Jim  Craig.  The 
exertion  of  climbing  four  flights  seemed  to 
be  good  for  her  nerves.  When  she  reached 
her  sitting-room  and  closed  the  door  she  found 
she  could  think  more  clearly. 

The  room  was  dark,  but  she  felt  her  way 
to  the  desk  that  was  part  of  the  hotel  furni- 
ture, and  took  out  an  envelope  that  she  knew 
just  where  to  find.  Then  she  sat  down  at  the 
window,  the  envelope  in  her  hand.  The 


KEEPING  STEP  171 

waters  of  the  bay  glistened  in  the  moonlight. 
She  liked  to  look  at  them.  It  was  one  of  her 
odd  fancies  that,  in  their  restless  way,  they  told 
her  what  to  do.  After  a  while  she  got  up,  and, 
lowering  the  window-shade,  switched  on  the 
electric  lights. 

"I  wish  it  zvere  only  a  headache,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

The  light  showed  that  the  envelope  was  yel- 
low. She  took  from  it  a  folded  paper  of  the 
same  tint.  It  was  a  telegram.  She  spread  it 
out  on  the  table — just  as  she  had  that  other 
one  which  announced  the  coming  of  Lieutenant 
Marston.  The  message  was  worded  differ- 
ently. It  read: 

"Lieutenant  Collins,  with  jour  privates, 
have  been  sent  from  post.  They  will  come  to 
your  rooms  in  hotel  at  nine  o'clock,  according 
to  your  instructions,  and.  will  bring  Craig  back, 
a  prisoner.  Headquarters  requests  that  you 
come  with  them.  Parsons." 

"Nine  o'clock  to-morrow  night!"  she 
groaned.  "How  soon  it  will  be  here!  And 

then Oh,  Jim!  Will  you  see  that  I  am 

doing  this  for  you  ?  Will  you  understand  that 
I  love  you  more  than  you  do  yourself,  and 


172  THE  DESERTERS 

that  because  I  do,  I  must  save  your  honor? 
Can  you  look  behind  the  deed  and  see  the  mo- 
tive prompting  it  ?  My  love !  My  love !" 

It  was  a  mercy  that  the  tears  came.  She 
leaned  her  head  on  her  arms  and  sobbed  for 
so  long  that  at  last  she  actually  had  the  head- 
ache which  had  been  her  excuse  for  leaving 
him.  Still,  the  weeping  was  a  comfort  to  her. 
Afterward,  when  she  had  bathed  her  face  in 
cold  water,  she  sat  again  by  the  open  window 
in  the  dark. 

The  moon  was  sinking,  and  only  one  shaft 
of  silver  lay  across  the  bay.  But  the  waters 
danced  as  merrily  as  ever  in  that  narrow  path, 
and  Madge  felt  their  encouragement  until  the 
moon  disappeared.  Then  she  pulled  down  the 
window-shade  and  once  more  lighted  up  the 
room. 

By  the  side  of  the  telegram,  spread  out  on 
the  table,  she  put  the  photograph  of  Jim 
Craig.  She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  and 
back  again  for  an  hour.  Anybody  who  did 
not  know  why  she  did  it  might  have  thought  it 
mere  idleness.  But,  below  her  breath,  she 
murmured  in  agony: 

"Oh,   Jim,   dear,   how   heartless   it   seems! 


KEEPING  STEP  173 

And  yet,  my  love!  It  is  for  you — only  for 
you!" 

In  the  morning  she  wondered  how  it  was 
that  she  had  been  able  to  sleep  so  soundly, 
without  a  dream  to  disturb  her.  Yet  it  was 
reasonable  enough.  The  deepest  sleep  is  that 
which  comes  from  utter  exhaustion. 

When  she  had  told  Jim  she  had  work  to  do 
that  day,  he  had  assumed  it  was  to  be  done 
with  needle  and  thread.  She  had  not  cor- 
rected him.  It  was  better  that  he  should  think 
that — for  the  present.  What  she  did  was  to 
go  to  another  hotel,  a  mile  away  from  her 
own,  and  ask  for  Lieutenant  Collins.  She 
wanted  to  make  sure  he  and  his  men  would  be 
at  her  rooms  at  nine  that  evening. 

"It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  see  you  again, 
Miss  Summers!"  said  the  gallant  lieutenant, 
when  they  met  in  the  hotel  parlor.  "We  all 
said,  when  you  left  our  place  in  Kansas,  that 
you  would  run  down  your  man.  I  congratu- 
late you  on  your  splendid  work." 

"'Thank  you,"  she  answered,  without  en- 
thusiasm. 

"Lieutenant  Marston  was  disappointed — on 
your  account,  when  he  found  you  had  the 


174  THE   DESERTERS 

wrong  man  under  surveillance  at  that  time. 
When  he  heard  you  had  got  him  now  beyond 
question,  he  could  hardly  believe  it.  But  he 
was  very  pleased  over  your  success,  of  course." 

"Was  he?" 

The  dryness  with  which  Madge  uttered 
these  two  words  made  Lieutenant  Collins  al- 
most uncomfortable.  He  was  inclined  to  be 
bashful — as  much  so  as  an  army  officer  could 
be — and  he  hoped  he  had  not  said  anything 
stupid.  The  conversation  lasted  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes.  Before  it  ended  the  lieutenant  un- 
derstood exactly  what  he  was  to  do.  Then  he 
felt  that  he  ought  to  make  some  comment  on 
the  affair  before  Madge  departed. 

"Poor  Craig!  I  feel  very  sorry  for  him," 
he  said.  "It  seems  too  bad  that  I  am  sent  to 
take  him  back,  for  I  have  command  of  the 
troop  that  was  his!  It  makes  me  feel — by 
Jove! — as  if  I  were  a  traitor,  somehow.  Of 
course  I  am  only  obeying  orders,  and  I  haven't 
anything  to  do  with  actually  catching  him, 
you  know.  But  still — by  gad ! — I  wish  I  hadn't 
got  to  do  it.  Awfully  good  fellow,  Craig! 
We  all  thought  so  much  of  him.  Plays  the 
piano — er — and — er — true  to  the  core." 


KEEPING   STEP  175 

He  paused  for  breath.  Then,  as  Madge 
said  nothing,  he  continued  helplessly: 

"Best  friend  a  fellow  could  have,  by  gosh! 
Now  he's  to  go  back  to  his  regiment  under 
guard,  like  a  felon.  Say,  Miss  Summers,  it 
seems  a  pity,  doesn't  it?  Kind  of  taking  him 
at  a  disadvantage — sort  of  hitting  him  behind, 
without  giving  him  a  chance  to  fight  back. 

I — er "  She  was  putting  out  her  hand. 

"Oh !  Good  afternoon,  Miss  Summers.  Very 
pleased  to  meet  you  again.  I'll  be  there,  with 
my  men,  at  nine  o'clock.  Orders  are  orders! 
Good  afternoon!  Awfully  pleased  to " 

And  so  forth.  The  well-meaning,  but 
rather  blundering,  young  officer  driveled  on 
until  Madge  was  clear  of  the  hotel  and  had 
stopped  a  street  car.  As  she  got  aboard  she 
saw  that  he  was  standing  in  the  gutter,  hat  in 
hand,  grinning  vacuously  and  in  imminent 
danger  of  being  run  over  by  a  recklessly 
driven  express  wagon. 

"Poor  fellow!"  thought  Madge.  "He's 
about  as  awkward  a  man — for  a  gentleman — 
as  I  ever  met.  Yet  I've  no  doubt  he  would 
fight  like  a  fiend  on  a  battle-field.  That's  the 
way  with  all  our  boys.  God  bless  'em !" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  MASKED  BATTERY 

WHEN  Jim  Craig  entered  her  sitting- 
room  that  evening  it  was  with  the 
light  step  and  smile  with  which  he 
always  greeted  her.     He  did  not  smile  much 
when  alone,  for  the  great  weight  was  on  his 
heart  at  all  times.    But  always  it  lifted  for  the 
moment  in  which  he  first  looked  upon  Madge 
after  a  day's  absence. 

She,  on  her  part,  gave  no  sign  of  the  pur- 
pose that  filled  her,  and  in  which  she  had 
strengthened  herself  by  steady  contemplation 
of  her  duty.  Whether  love  would  have  out- 
weighed her  devotion  to  the  service  if  she 
had  not  felt  that  Jim  Craig's  return  to  his 
regiment  would  be  his  salvation,  was  a  ques- 
tion. She  did  not  attempt  to  answer  it.  For- 
tunately, as  she  believed,  fate  had  saved  her 
that  embarrassment. 

176 


A   MASKED   BATTERY          177 

She  knew — and  so  would  he  know,  event- 
ually— that  she  could  not  have  done  other- 
wise, for  the  sake  of  his  honor  and  her  own. 
Meanwhile,  until  the  instant  arrived  when  she 
must  give  the  signal  that  would  make  him  a 
prisoner,  he  was  her  boy — her  love!  She 
yielded  to  his  passionate  embrace  and  kiss 
without  misgiving. 

There  was  nothing  false  in  her  thus  giving 
way.  She  loved  him,  and  he  loved  her.  They 
would  be  married — when  he  had  been  to  Kan- 
sas and  purged  himself  of  his  foolishness. 
Because  she  chanced  to  be  the  agent  in  caus- 
ing him  to  undergo  the  ordeal,  it  was  not  for- 
bidden her  to  permit  a  demonstration  of  the 
holy  fire  burning  in  both  their  hearts. 

"Are  you  better,  dear?"  were  his  first 
words. 

"Much  better,"  she  answered.  "I  seemed 
to  need  a  good  night's  rest.  That  was  all." 

He  looked  around  the  room  for  evidences 
of  the  sewing  that  might  have  occupied  her. 

"And  the  work  you  had  to  do?  Were  you 
well  enough  for  that?" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  see  any  of  it  about." 


178  THE  DESERTERS 

She  laughed,  and  he  did  not  notice  that  she 
was  somewhat  constrained. 

"You  will  see  it,  perhaps,  after  a  while. 
But  never  mind  that.  Have  you  felt  well  all 
day?" 

"Not  so  very.  I  never  do  when  I  am  kept 
away  from  you.  I  didn't  sleep  soundly  last 
night,  either.  That  is  not  unusual,  however. 
When  a  man  has  tormenting  recollections  al- 
ways in  the  background,  they  have  a  way  of 
breaking  through  present  happiness  and  giving 
him  troubled  dreams. 

"You  should  not  go  to  bed  while  you  are  in 
that  state  of  mind,"  she  told  him  gently. 
"Doctors  and  scientists  generally  insist  that 
one  should  fall  asleep  only  with  pleasant 
thoughts." 

"I  know.  But  if  I  were  to  wait  for  them 
when  I'm  in  such  a  mood  as  came  over  me  last 
night,  after  I'd  left  you,  I  shouldn't  sleep  at 
all.  Ah,  well!  I'm  with  you  now.  Dreams 
can't  worry  me  here." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  Yet  I  would 
drive  away  all  sad  memories  from  you  if  it 
could  be  done." 

They  were  seated  side  by  side  on  a  pretty 


A   MASKED   BATTERY         179 

chintz-covered  sofa  which  was  a  favorite 
lounge  of  hers.  One  of  her  arms  was  around 
him.  He  clasped  the  other  hand  in  both  of 
his  own. 

"It  can  be  done,  Madge,"  he  declared  pas- 
sionately. "When  I  am  with  you  it  seems  as 
if  nothing  evil  could  breathe  the  same  atmo- 
sphere. Those  dear,  clear  eyes  of  yours  would 
vanquish  Apollyon  himself." 

"Silly  boy!"  She  pulled  his  head  down  to 
her  shoulder  and  held  it  there,  with  a  hand  on 
his  temple.  "If  I  am  a  good  pal,  that  is  all  I 
can  hope  to  be.  They  said  over  at  Reilly's 
•that  I  was  'white.'  It  is  true  they  were  speak- 
ing of  Madge,  the  singer.  But  I  hope  it  ap- 
plies with  equal  force  to  Madge  Summers,  of 
the  Hotel  Waldemar." 

"Yes,  when  the  kind  of  folks  you  meet  at 
Reilly's  say  one  is  'white'  they  have  gone  as 
far  as  they  can  in  the  way  of  praise.  You 
have  reason  to  be  proud  of  it,  dear,  and  I  am 
proud,  too,  for  your  sake.  Imagine  how  you 
would  feel  if  you  were  what  I  am — what  you 
suspected  the  very  first  time  you  saw  me — a 
deserter." 

"Hush,  Jim!    I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk 


180  THE   DESERTERS 

like  that.  It  was  not  your  fault.  You  had 
begun  on  the  biggest,  most  splendid  work  in 
the  world — carrying  arms  for  your  country. 
Then  something  evil  touched  you  on  the  shoul- 
der, and  you  dropped  aside.  That  was  all. 
Don't  you  see?  You  fell  out  of  line.  But  it 
isn't  for  always.  You  are  still  keeping  step. 
As  for  your  being  a  deserter,  why,  I'm  one, 
too." 

"You?" 

He  tried  to  sit  up,  to  look  into  her  face,  but 
she  held  him  to  her  shoulder,  as  she  went  on : 

"Yes.  I,  like  you,  had  fine,  clean  work  to 
do.  I  was  doing  it  to  the  best  of  my  ability, 
and  there  was  not  a  flaw  in  my  loyalty.  Then 
I  was  tempted.  I  don't  believe  I  even  tried 
really  to  resist.  I  was  ready  to  run  away. 
My  work — the  duty  that  had  been  my  very 
life — would  have  prevented  our  friendship, 
Jim!" 

Again  he  would  have  looked  at  her,  but  she 
restrained  him  as  before,  and  continued 
steadily : 

"We  are  both  deserters,  dear.  Let  us  hope 
that  we  may  both  take  our  punishment  and 
still  be  pals." 


A   MASKED   BATTERY         181 

She  could  not  hold  him  longer.  He  insisted 
on  gazing  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"Pals?" 

"Yes.    Jim — in  the  best  way." 

"But  I  don't  want  you  as  a  pal,"  he  pro- 
tested. "I  don't  care  for  that  word  between 
us.  I've  told  you  that  before.  You'll  be  my 
wife." 

"Well,"  she  said,  trying,  but  without  much 
success,  to  smile  naturally.  "May  not  a  wife 
be  a  pal?" 

"Of  course,  but  I  want  you  for  a  wife 
first.  We'll  talk  then  about  being  pals.  Do 
you  know,  dear,"  he  continued,  with  animation, 
"you  look  so  entirely  different  from  the  Madge 
I  met  at  Reilly's  that  I  never  get  over  wonder- 
ing." 

"Perhaps  you  like  me  better  with  rouge  on 
my  face  and  a  lot  of  cheap  jewelry  in  my  hair. 
Do  you?" 

"Every  way  I  see  you  I  like  you  better.  But 
wasn't  it  strange  that  we  found  each  other — 
each  other  out  of  all  the  world — in  such  a 
place  as  Reilly's?  Why,  it's  a  wonderful  ro- 


mance." 


'And  like  all  real  romances,  it  must  end 


182  THE   DESERTERS 

happily,"  she  murmured.    "It  must — it  must !" 

It  was  he  that  made  her  a  prisoner  now. 
His  strong  arm  was  around  her,  and  it  gave 
her  strength  and  courage  to  say  what  she 
knew  she  must  put  into  words  before — before 
— nine  o'clock.  Slowly,  f  alteringly,  she  began : 

"Jim,  there's  something  I  have  to  tell  you, 
and  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it.  I — don't — 
know  how — to  do  it." 

"What  is  it,  dear?  Tell  me,  in  any  way  you 
like." 

There  was  no  misgiving  in  his  voice.  Af- 
ter the  assurances  she  had  given  him  as  to  her 
past  life,  what  could  she  say  that  would  dis- 
turb him?  He  knew  girls  often  attached  im- 
portance to  disclosures  which  a  man  might 
regard  as  utterly  trivial.  He  smiled  as  he 
waited. 

"I  wonder,"  she  went  on  musingly,  "just  how 
much  your  love  would  bear." 

"I  don't  wonder.  I  know  my  love  is  invinci- 
ble. But  I  am  wondering  if  you  would  be  hap- 
pier knowing  my  secret.  No,  I'm  afraid  not. 
It  would  only  make  you  miserable,  and  I  am 
not  selfish  enough  for  that.  Yet  I  wish  I  could 
tell  you.  It  would  be  so  good  to  lay  bare  my 


A    MASKED    BATTERY          183 

whole  life  to  the  one  person  on  earth  whom  I 
know  I  can  trust." 

"Jim,  dear!"  she  cried,  with  an  agony  that 
made  him  start.  "You  must  not  be  always 
saying  that  you  trust  me.  Your  experience 
in  the  world  surely  has  taught  you  that  there 
is  no  human  being  in  whom  you  can  have  ab- 
solute, implicit  faith." 

"Nonsense,  Madge!  I  have  had  no  experi- 
ence that  tells  me  anything  of  the  kind.  And 
if  I  had,  what  then?  You  are  not  like  any- 
body else  I  ever  knew.  So  how  could  I  meas- 
ure you  by  any  standard  except  your  own, 
even  if  I  cared  to  do  it  at  all?" 

"But,  Jim !    Listen !    I  have  lied  to  you !" 

He  gave  her  a  quizzical  smile. 

"You  have!"  he  said  lightly.  "Oh,  you 
wicked  little  fibber !  I'll  bet  the  lie  was  a  white 
one." 

"Ah !  I  wish  it  were !  It  is  black,  Jim.  So 
black  that  you  may  never  forgive  it !" 

"Rubbish!  I  don't  know  what  you're  talk- 
ing about." 

He  would  not  take  her  seriously.  She  con- 
tinued hurriedly: 

"You  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  about? 


184  THE   DESERTERS 

No,  of  course  you  don't.  I've  deceived  men 
before,  and  not  minded  it  much.  But  you, 
Jim!  I " 

"I  thought  we'd  done  with  all  that,  dear," 
he  interrupted  gently.  "We  shall  have  to  get 
something  for  your  nerves.  You  seem  to  be 
all  in  a  flutter  to-night." 

"In  a  flutter!"  she  echoed.  "Why,  Jim,  I'm 
mad — mad  with  panic,  and  uncertainty,  and 
fear,  and  trouble  over  what  I've  done!  And 
yet  it's  been  all  for  you — all  for  you,  Jim! 
Oh,  if  only  you'll  believe  it!" 

His  eyebrows  came  together  the  merest 
trifle. 

"Believe  it?  Have  I  ever  doubted  anything 
you  ever  told  me?" 

"No,  no!  That's  true,  dear.  You  never 
have  doubted  me.  And  you'll  believe  me  now ! 
I'm  sure  you  will !  You  must !" 

She  got  up  from  the  sofa  and  walked  across 
the  room,  while  he  watched  her  with  a  world 
of  sorrowful  tenderness  in  his  eyes.  When 
she  came  back  he  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Jim,  hold  me  close — close!"  she  whispered. 

"Indeed  I  will,  forever,"  and  his  clasp  tight- 
ened. 


A  MASKED   BATTERY         185 

She  went  on,  in  the  same  eager  whisper, 
her  words  tumbling  over  each  other : 

"Jim,  talk  to  me.  Tell  me  that  you  love 
me — that  you  will  always  love  me,  whatever 
happens!  Because  when  you  know  that " 

"Madge,"  he  answered,  and  there  was  a 
resolute  swing  to  his  words  that  encouraged 
her,  "you're  everything  that  stands  for  hope 
and  happiness — for  life  itself.  Without  you 
I  shouldn't  have  the  pluck  to  go  on  playing 
the  game.  But,  with  you,  we'll  make  it  the 
biggest,  Bravest  game  that  ever  was  played. 
And  we'll  win  out,  dear — we'll  win  out !  Then 
for  that  white  cottage,  with  the  roses,  that 
I've  set  my  heart  on !" 

"If  that  could  come  true,  dear,  I Jim, 

if  ever  you  are  puzzled  by  anything  I've  done, 
or  feel  inclined  to  hate  me  for  it,  look  for  the 
key  to  the  riddle  in  this — I  love  you." 

"I'm  glad  there  is  a  key,"  he  said,  and  he 
was  more  grave  than  he  had  been  at  any  time 
that  evening.  "There  couldn't  be  a  better  one 
than  that." 

"And  it  is  the  true  one,"  she  said.  "I  shall 
never  do  anything  in  all  my  life  that  won't  be 
done  for  love  of  you." 


186  THE   DESERTERS 

Her  hand  was  on  his  shoulder.  She  raised 
it  to  his  head  and  smoothed  his  hair  thought- 
fully for  a  few  moments  in  silence.  Then, 
drawing  a  deep  breath,  as  if  for  a  task  that 
would  take  all  her  strength,  she  continued: 

"Jim,  I  told  you  a  little  while  ago  of  a  big 
duty  I  had  to  perform — a  work  that  I  feared 
might  interfere  with  my  friendship  for  you. 
One  long  night  I  stood  at  that  window  and 
fought  it  all  out,  while  the  lights  glared  and 
glittered  all  over  the  town.  I  felt  fairly  sure 
of  myself,  but  as  the  darkness  came  I  began 
to  see  the  sterner  lines  of  life.  Soon  the  moon 
came  up  and  made  a  light  pathway  for  her- 
self across  the  bay.  I  knew  it  was  telling  me 
I  must  march  straight,  without  turning  to  one 
side  or  the  other.  So  I  gave  the  moon  a 
good  soldierly  look  and  saluted,  and  she 
seemed  to  say:  'Eyes  front  and  look  out  for 
your  formation.'  I  stood  at  'Attention!'  un- 
til, after  a  long  time,  it  grew  dark  again,  and 
I  was  alone  with  an  ache  in  my  heart.  But 
I  had  found  what  it  all  meant.  I'd  been 
thinking  of  you  through  the  night,  and  I  knew 
I  cared  more  for  your  military  career  than 
my  own  happiness.  Then  the  sun  came  up, 


A   MASKED   BATTERY         187 

and Wasn't  it  strange?  The  world 

looked  quite  new." 

"Well,  you'll  keep  no  more  vigils  alone, 
dear.  So  don't  worry.  I  know  you  don't 
mind  my  smoking  in  your  room.  You've  told 
me  so  many  times." 

So  cool  was  he,  and  so  little  weight  did  he 
attach  to  all  she  had  said  that  he  took  out  a 
cigar,  and  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  his 
match-box.  She  caught  his  wrist  wildly. 

"Jim !  Jim !  You  will  not  understand !  Can't 
you  see  that  I'm  nearly  out  of  my  mind?  Jim! 
My  love!  ...  7  ant  an  army  detective, 
and  I  was  sent  here  by  Headquarters  at  Wash- 
ington to  track  you  down!" 

He  crushed  the  cigar  in  his  hand,  and  raised 
his  clenched  fist  as  if  he  would  strike  her. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN   OPEN   ORDER 

SHE  did  not  move.  If  he  had  actually 
beaten  her,  she  would  not  have  tried  to 
avoid  him. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  he 
never  took  his  eyes  from  her  face.  He  was 
trying  to  grasp  the  full  meaning  of  her  con- 
fession. She  had  spoken  plainly  enough,  but 
there  are  some  things  that  a  man  cannot  credit 
at  first,  even  though  he  feels  them  to  be  true. 
At  last  he  understood.  From  his  dry  throat 
came  a  short  laugh.  When  he  spoke  it  was 
in  a  tone  she  never  had  heard  from  him 
before. 

"I  suppose  I  can't  have  been  mistaken,"  he 
said.  "You  really  did  say  that  you  are  a  de- 
tective— a  female  police  officer?" 

She  bowed  her  head  under  the  bitter  con- 
tempt he  threw  into  the  last  three  words.  She 
did  not  speak. 

188 


IN   OPEN    ORDER  189 

"If  you  hadn't  said  it  in  such  a  way  that  I 
know  it  must  be  true,"  he  went  on,  "I  couldn't 
believe  it.  The  thing  is  too  vile.  Why, 
woman!"  he  shouted,  in  sudden  fury,  "we've 
been  lovers!  Lovers!  Think  of  it!  And 
you've  been  leading  me  on — making  me  be- 
lieve you  a  pure,  true  woman,  who  cared  for 
me  as  the  man  you  intended  to  marry!  And 

all  the  time  you  were God !  What  fools 

men  are !" 

He  fell  into  hysterical  laughter — short,  dis- 
cordant barks  of  spurious  mirth  that  are  al- 
ways so  piteous  from  a  man.  During  this  out- 
break he  seemed  to  lose  all  control  of  him- 
self. He  leaned  against  the  table  and  slapped 
his  knees.  He  stalked  up  and  down  the  room. 
He  stood  at  the  window  a  moment  and  stared 
out  at  the  distant  waters.  But  always  he 
laughed,  and  laughed — without  ever  looking 
at  her. 

"So  you  were  sent  to  track  me  down!"  he 
flung  at  her,  at  last.  "Well,  you've  done  it! 
You've  found  me!  Is  the  incident  closed — or 
have  you  anything  else  to  say?" 

With  a  raising  of  her  shoulders,  as  she  drew 
a  long  breath,  she  replied  quietly: 


190  THE   DESERTERS 

"Yes,  I  have  several  things  to  say." 

He  had  stopped  laughing,  and  was  looking 
at  her  with  eyes  as  hard  as  steel. 

"I  won't  try  to  excuse  what  I  have  done," 
she  faltered.  "I  don't  know  whether  I  should, 
since  I  am  only  doing  my  duty  as  I  see  it." 

"As  you  see  it!     Well?" 

"My  father  was  an  army  officer.  I  was 
brought  up  in  the  Service.  To  me  it  was 
practically  everything.  All  that  took  place  out- 
side was  of  slight  importance.  When  I  grew 
older,  early  in  my  teens,  I  wanted  to  be  part 
of  the  army  in  some  way.  My  father  ridiculed 
me  at  first,  but  when  he  saw  how  determined 
I  was,  he  discussed  my  ambitions  seriously, 
and  said  he  would  try  to  get  me  something 
to  do  in  the  War  Department  at  Washington. 
One  day  I  met  a  woman  detective.  She  was 
dashing,  knew  all  about  the  army — with  a  lot 
of  secret  things  that  I  never  had  suspected — 
and  she  said  she  liked  me.  She  told  me  stories 
of  her  adventures  in  running  down  deserters. 
They  were  full  of  romance.  That  decided  me. 
I  wanted  to  be  a  detective.  They  made  me 
one,  and  I  was  happy.  I  loved  the  work.  I 


IN   OPEN   ORDER  191 

reveled  in  the  excitement.  But,  best  of  all,  I 
loved  to  feel  that  I  was  working  for  the  old 
Service."  She  paused.  "And  I've  done  good, 
too." 

He  uttered  again  the  short  laugh  that  hurt 
her  so.  She  shuddered  a  little,  but  continued 
evenly : 

"Oh,  I  have  done  good.  You  don't  believe 
me,  I  can  see.  But  I  have." 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  You  have  captured  poor 
wretches  who  had  run  away  from  their  regi- 
ments, and  Headquarters  has  praised  you. 
That  is  doing  good,  of  course.  It's  what  you 
get  your  blood-money  for." 

"I've  done  good  in  other  ways,"  she  in- 
sisted, ignoring  his  sneer.  "I've  helped  many 
a  young  fellow  to  get  through  the  passing 
madness  that  made  him  desert,  and  start  fair 
again.  That  was  doing  good,  of  the  best 
kind.  When  they  gave  me  your  case,  I  was 
glad." 

"Were  you?  I'm  honored  that  you  regard 
me  as  a  good  thing." 

"Yes,  I  was  glad,  because  it  looked  like 
clean  work.  I  had  been  called  in  on  a  horrid 


192  THE   DESERTERS 

business  in  the  Seventeenth  regiment.  But  I 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  man 
had  murdered  an  officer  and  then  run  away." 

Jim  Craig  clutched  the  edge  of  the  table 
against  which  he  was  standing,  and  glared  at 
her.  But  she  did  not  see  it.  She  could  not 
face  him  just  now. 

"I  started  on  this  case,  as  I  had  on  most  of 
my  others,  full  of  interest  and  enthusiasm.  I 
had  great  difficulty  at  first." 

"Until  you  found  me?  Then  it  was  dead 
easy,  wasn't  it?" 

"No,  Jim!  It  wasn't  dead  easy,  and  you 
know  why." 

"Can't  possibly  see  why." 

"It  was  because — because — I  found  very 
soon — from  the  first,  I  think — that  I  loved 
you." 

"How  delightful!    Say,  you're  a  wonder!" 

"Jim!" 

The  reproach  and  pain  in  her  involuntary 
cry  might  have  touched  him  if  he  had  .not 
believed  her  to  be  utterly,  vilely  false.  He 
only  laughed.  Then,  thrusting  his  hands  into 
his  pockets,  he  leaned  easily  against  the  tabfe 
to  hear  what  more  she  might  have  to  say.  Re- 


IN   OPEN   ORDER  193 

action  might  come  later,  but  at  present  he  had 
no  feeling  for  her  but  hatred  and  contempt. 

"Go  on/'  he  said.  "I  beg  your  pardon  for 

interrupting.  You What  was  it  you  said 

last?  Oh,  yes!  You  found  that  you  loved 
me.  Well?" 

"I  tried  to  induce  you  to  give  yourself  up. 
You  wouldn't  do  it.  Then  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  sacrifice  my  work,  my  duty,  my  career 
— everything,  and  go  away  with  you." 

"But  you  thought  better  of  it?  Sensible 
young  woman !" 

"Jim!"  she  broke  out  beseechingly.  "How 
can  you  hurt  me  so?" 

"Hurt  you?  /  hurt  you?  You  ask  that? 
What  of  the  hurt  to  me?  What  of  the  pain, 
the  loneliness,  and  the  misery  you  have  sen- 
tenced me  to?  I'm  not  thinking  of  the  hurt; 
that's  a  small  matter.  But  you've  taken  away 
my  hope.  You've  shown  me  that  in  all  the 
world  there's  nothing  to  cling  to.  Why — • 
Heaven  help  me! — I  believed  you  were  in 
earnest  when  you  put  your  arms  around  my 
neck  and  said  'I  love  you !' ' 

"Look  at  me!"  she  interrupted,  standing  in 
front  of  him,  with  her  hands  out.  "Look  at 


194  THE   DESERTERS 

me,  Jim!  Can  you  honestly  doubt  that  I  love 
you?  And  don't  you  think  I've  suffered  in 
my  struggle  to  do  right?" 

"Struggle!"  he  echoed  scornfully.  "A 
woman  doesn't  struggle  as  a  man  understands 
it.  You  may  have  liked  me  a  little.  I  sup- 
pose I  may  assume  that,  since  you  will  insist 
on  it.  But  what  was  I  compared  with  this 
Service  that  orders  you  to  give  me  up  to 
death?" 

She  looked  at  him  curiously  as  he  spoke  the 
last  word,  but  evidently  thought  he  used  it  only 
in  a  figurative  sense. 

"By  your  own  confession,  when  it  was  a 
question  whether  you  should  spare  me  or  seek 
the  favor  of  your  employers,  you  gave  way  to 
•them  at  once.  As  for  your  loving  me,  that 
was  part  of  the  game — like  your  singing  at 
Reilly's,  and  the  Irish  accent,  and  all  the  rest 
of  your  bag  of  tricks." 

"Jim,  I've  told  you  that  I  shall  never  do 
anything  in  my  life  that  won't  be  done  for 
love  of  you.  But  you  won't  believe  me.  How 
can  you  be  so  different  from  what  you  were 
ten  minutes  ago?" 

"Until  ten  minutes  ago  I  didn't  know  that 


IN   OPEN   ORDER  195 

you  were  a  man-hunter,  and  that  I  was  the 
man  you  were  after.  You  told  me  that  you 
were  a  deserter,  as  well  as  I.  Well,  you  seem 
to  be  pretty  solid  in  your  job.  I  don't  see  any 
desertion  on  your  part." 

"Yes,  but  it  is  only  for  your  sake.  I  love 
you  so  well  that  I  want  you  to  go  back." 

"I'd  think  more  of  you  if  you  wouldn't  keep 
on  talking  about  love,"  he  shot  out  savagely. 

"What  sort  of  love  would  mine  be,"  she 
continued,  as  if  she  had  not  heard  him,  "if  I 
used  it  to  drag  you  down,  to  encourage  you 
in  running  away  from  your  duty,  to  help  you 
to  live  a  life  of  degradation  and  disgrace 
and  secrecy?  Jim!  Won't  you  listen  to  me, 
and  try  to  believe  that,  because  I  love  you,  I 
want  you  to  go  back  and  serve  your  time  like 
a  man?" 

He  turned  on  her  with  a  sharp  look  that 
seemed  to  ask  her  whether  she  realized  what 
she  was  talking  about.  Then,  seeing  only  in- 
nocent anxiety  in  her  face,  he  replied  sternly : 

"Serve  my  time  ?  You  don't  serve  time  for 
murder." 

She  retreated,  a  step  at  a  time,  her  horror- 
stricken  eyes  on  his  face.  Twice  she  tried  to 


196  THE  DESERTERS 

speak  and  failed.  Her  throat  seemed  on  fire, 
her  head  was  spinning. 

"Jim!"  she  faltered.    "Say  that  again!" 

"What?" 

"You  don't  mean But  you  said 

Murder!" 

"Yes.     I  am  wanted  for — murder." 

The  scream  that  came  from  her  was  not 
loud.  Just  a  thin,  low  cry — telling  of  mortal 
terror  and  agony  combined.  It  was  like  the 
shriek  of  a  wild  animal,  as  the  hunter  holds  a 
knife  at  its  throat.  She  dropped  on  the  chintz- 
covered  sofa  and  rocked  herself  to  and  fro. 
Jim  watched  her  unmoved,  still  with  that  half- 
smile  of  contempt  which  had  never  wholly  left 
his  lips  since  she  had  revealed  to  him  her  pro- 
fession. 

"What's  the  matter?  Are  you  going  to 
pretend  now  that  you  didn't  even  know  the 
crime  of  the  man  you  were  sent  to  arrest?" 

"No,"  she  answered  faintly.  "I  did  not 
know.  I  swear  I  didn't !  Murder  ?  They  told 
me  it  was  for  striking  your  superior  officer — 
nothing  more.  And,  oh,  Jim!  I  did  it  all  for 
you.  I  wanted  to  save  you  from  yourself.  I 
thought  it  the  part  of  love — real  love — to  do 


IN   OPEN   ORDER  197 

it.  And,  and Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  I 

let  them  know  that  you'd  be  here  to-night. 
And — and — and  they'll  be  here  to  take  you!" 

A  wild,  hunted  look  came  into  Jim  Craig's 
eyes,  and  for  the  second  time  that  night  he 
raised  his  clenched  hand  menacingly.  But 
only  for  an  instant.  His  cold  smile  turned 
into  a  shout  of  dreadful  laughter.  Through 
it  he  thundered — and  the  words  seemed  to 
carry  the  majestic  import  that  are  conveyed 
in  most  Scriptural  quotations,  especially  from 
the  Old  Testament: 

"  'The  Philistines  be  upon  thee,  Samson !' 
She  warned  her  victim,  didn't  she — when  it 
was  too  late?" 

Madge  cowered,  as  if  under  a  curse.  Hard- 
ly knowing  what  she  did,  in  her  terror  and 
despair,  she  threw  herself  upon  him. 

"No,  Jim — my  dear!  It  is  not  too  late! 
There's  time  to  get  away.  I  said  nine  o'clock. 
The  soldiers  won't  come  before." 

He  pushed  her  off  roughly. 

"There  isn't  time!  You  know  that.  Keep 
away  from  me." 

"There  is  time,  I  tell  you,"  breathlessly.  "I 
.know.  Look  here,  Jim,  dear!  Don't  be  ob- 


198  THE  DESERTERS 

stinate.  Listen  to  me.  If  they  come  before 
you  can  get  away,  go  into  that  other  room  and 
hide.  If  they  find  you,  I'll  say  you're  not  the 
man — that  you're  my  lover,  my  husband " 

He  gave  her  a  look  that  cut  her  like  a 
knife  across  her  bosom,  as  he  interrupted: 

"Your  husband?  No!  I'm  not  so  low  as 
that!" 

"Never  mind  about  words.  They  don't  mat- 
ter. Jim !  if  you'll  only  go  and  save  yourself ! 
You  must,  I  tell  you!  If  you  don't,  I  shall 
have  killed  you!  Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me 
before  that  you'd How  could  I  know  un- 
less I  was  told  ?  But  you're  going  to  get  away 
— somehow!  Let  me  think!" 

"If  I  didn't  know  what  you  are,  and  had 
seen  how  well  you  can  act — at  Reilly's,  for 
instance — I  might  be  taken  in  by  all  this,"  he 
told  her,  with  a  sneer. 

She  heeded  not  his  cutting  words  and  cruel 
manner. 

"Jim!  Jim!  Out  of  that  other  door — the 
door  of  my  bedroom !  You  can  get  away  like 
that!  You  must  not  let  them  take  you!  My 
dear!  My  dear!  If  ever  you  even  dreamed 
vou  loved  me " 


JIM  CRAIG  WAS  A  PRISONER,  WITH  TWO  SOLDIERS  ON 
EITHER  SIDE  OF  HIM 


IN   OPEN   ORDER  199 

He  stopped  her  with  an  oath — a  foul,  blas- 
phemous word  that  scorched  her  very  soul — 
and  followed  it  with : 

"No !  Now  I  know  the  kind  of  woman  you 
are,  I'll  let  you  finish  your  work.  I  won't  go. 
They  can  take  me.  You've  put  the  rope 
around  my  neck.  There  let  it  stay." 

There  was  a  knock  outside.  Madge  looked 
at  the  clock  on  the  mantel.  It  was  exactly 
nine! 

In  sheer  desperation — for  she  knew  her  act 
was  meaningless — she  ran  to  the  door  and 
stood  there,  her  back  against  it,  panting. 

"Come  away  from  that  door!"  he  ordered. 

Sobbing,  spent,  with  loosened  hair  and 
shattered  strength,  she  clutched  the  handle  de- 
fiantly and  clung  closer. 

"I  won't!" 

He  took  her  by  the  wrist  and  swung  her 
aside.  As  he  did  so  the  door  was  pushed  open 
from  without.  Lieutenant  Collins,  with  four 
private  soldiers,  all  in  the  uniform  of  Jim 
Craig's  regiment,  stood  in  the  hallway. 

Collins  looked  sharply  about  the  room.  He 
did  not  recognize  Craig.  With  his  mustache 
gone,  much  thinner  in  the  face,  and  in  civil- 


200  THE   DESERTERS 

ian  dress,  he  did  not  look  at  all  like  the  man 
Collins  had  known  at  the  army  post  in 
Kansas. 

"Er — Miss  Summers " 

But  Jim  broke  in.  He  straightened  up  at 
"Attention!" — heels  together  and  right  arm 
raised  in  salute — as  he  shouted: 

"It's  all  right,  lieutenant !    Come  right  in !" 

Madge  darted  between  them,  waving  back 
the  soldiers  and  making  as  if  she  would  close 
the  door  and  shut  them  out. 

"Lieutenant!"  she  said,  with  a  pathetic  ef- 
fort to  speak  calmly,  "I'm  very  sorry  to  have 
given  you  all  this  trouble.  Our  man  has  not 
come  to-night.  I'll — I'll — try  to  have  him 
here — to-morrow." 

Lieutenant  Collins — rather  slow  of  percep- 
tion, it  will  be  remembered — showed  that  he 
was  perplexed,  although  he  never  relaxed  his 
stiff  military  attitude. 

"But "  he  began. 

"Don't  take  any  notice  of  this  woman," 
again  spoke  Jim.  "You  are  looking  for  James 
Craig,  formerly  second  lieutenant  in  your 
regiment?  Well,  I  am " 


IN   OPEN   ORDER  201 

"No,  no!"  screamed  Madge.  "He  is  not 
the  man !" 

She  caught  him  by  the  arm.  He  thrust  her 
aside  with  brutal  force. 

"That  woman  lies !"  he  snarled.  "I  am  the 
man!" 

Lieutenant  Collins  flashed  out  his  sword  and 
gave  a  curt  order.  The  four  privates  marched 
into  the  room  with  automaton-like  precision, 
and  stood  facing  Jim.  More  orders,  each 
obeyed  promptly  as  it  was  given,  and  in  a  few 
seconds  Jim  Craig  was  a  prisoner,  with  two 
soldiers  on  either  side  of  him,  in  the  hallway 
outside  the  door. 

"Miss  Summers,"  said  the  lieutenant,  ;"I 
will  report  to  Colonel  Parsons  how  well  you 
have  managed  this  case,  and  that  through  you 
the  capture  was  effected  without  difficulty. 
With  your  permission,  I  will  call  on  you  in 
the  morning  to  tell  you  what  arrangements  I 
may  make  for  the  transportation  of  the  pris- 
oner to  Kansas,  and  in  the  hope  that  you  will 
accept  my  escort  to  the  post.  Good  evening, 
Miss  Summers." 

He  closed  the  door,  and  she  heard  his  voice 


202  THE   DESERTERS 

outside :   "  'Tention,  squad !   Right  face !  For- 
ward !    March !" 

The  steady  tramp,  tramp,  tramp!  down  the 
hallway  seemed  to  Madge  like  blows  upon  her 
heart,  beating  her  down  to  utter  despair. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ON   PAROLE 

FOR  half  an  hour  after  Madge  had  heard 
the  last  echo  of  the  soldiers'  footsteps 
she  walked  up  and  down  her  room,  try- 
ing to  bring  her  mind  into  something  like  or- 
der.    It  seemed  to  be  useless.     All  she  could 
think  of  was  that  she  had  placed  the  man 
she  loved  in  the  hands  of  the  hangman.    No 
matter  that  she  had  done  so  unintentionally, 
the  fact  remained. 

At  last,  as  she  looked  across  at  the  bay,  the 
sheen  of  the  moonlight  upon  the  waters  had 
its  usual  soothing  effect.  She  had  not  stood 
there  half  a  minute  before  the  tears  came. 
Until  then  her  eyes  had  been  dry  and  hot,  and 
her  half-uttered  prayer  had  been  again  and 
again :  "If  I  could  only  cry !" 

With  the  relaxing  in  her  throat  that  meant 
weeping  her  head  cleared.  She  set  herself 
resolutely  to  face  the  situation. 

203 


204  THE  DESERTERS 

That  she  would  allow  Jim  Craig  to  go  to 
his  fate,  whatever  it  might  be,  without  fight- 
ing in  his  behalf  to  the  last  ditch,  was  incon- 
ceivable. No  matter  what  his  resentment 
toward  her,  he  must  be  saved.  The  revelation 
that  he  was  charged  with  such  an  awful  crime 
as  murder  had  come  so  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly that  she  must  begin  all  over  again 
with  his  case.  When  she  supposed  him  a  sim- 
ple deserter  she  had  known  just  what  to  do. 
Homicide  was  beyond  her. 

It  had  been  her  firm  policy,  since  entering 
the  Government  service,  never  to  pursue  a  man 
accused  of  murder.  Military  misdemeanors 
were  one  thing,  capital  punishment  another. 
She  did  not  concede  the  right  of  any  man  or 
set  of  men  to  put  another  to  death,  no  matter 
what  his  crime  might  have  been. 

"And  now  I  have  betrayed  the  man  I  would 
have  given  my  life  to  save/'  she  murmured. 
"Yes,  Jim,  I  would  take  your  place  at  this 
moment,  if  I  could!  I  don't  know  what  you 
are  supposed  to  have  done,  or  whether  you  are 
guilty  or  not.  But,  as  sure  as  that  moon  is 
shining,  I  would  do  it.  Of  course,  if  you 
heard  me  say  that,  you  would  laugh,  and  tell 


ON   PAROLE  205 

me  talk  is  cheap.  You  wouldn't  believe  I'm 
in  earnest.  But  I  am,  dear !  Here,  alone  with 
the  Great  Ruler  who  hears  me,  I  swear  I  am 
sincere!  Ah!  if  only  there  were  some  way! 
If  there  were  any  way  at  all!" 

She  resumed  her  weary  march  up  and  down 
— her  mind  keeping  step,  and,  like  her  walk, 
leading  nowhere ! 

"What  have  they  done  with  him,  I  won- 
der ?"  she  said,  aloud,  when,  from  sheer  weari- 
ness, she  dropped  upon  the  chintz-covered 
couch.  "How  will  they  keep  him  to-night? 
They  are  not  going  back  to  Kansas  till  to- 
morrow. Surely  they  can't  be  going  to  put 
him  in  jail,  with  criminals — murderers!" 

She  shivered  as  this  word  escaped  her. 
Murderers!  And  Jim — her  Jim ! — was  classed 
as  one  of  them ! 

Well,  why  shouldn't  he  be  herded  with  mur- 
derers in  jail? 

Wasn't  that  what  any  virtuous  person  might 
demand  should  be  done  with  him  ? 

"Oh,  my  love!"  she  groaned.  "You  need 
not  have  been  so  cruel  to  me.  If  you  had 
known  how  I  suffered,  you  might  have  be- 
lieved. I  think  any  woman  would.  Well,  I 


206  THE  DESERTERS 

suppose  his  pushing  me  aside  like  an  unclean 
thing  marked  the  difference  between  the  sexes. 
He  would  have  called  it  man's  justice.  A 
strong  man,  as  he  is,  cannot  comprehend  sym- 
pathy and  forgiveness  as  they  appeal  to 
women." 

She  brought  herself  up  short  and  wiped  the 
last  tear  from  her  cheek. 

"Madge  Summers!"  she  broke  out,  in  an 
admonitory  tone.  "What  are  you  talking 
about?  Here  you  are,  scolding  him  because 
he  does  not  behave  like  a  woman,  when  you 
know  very  well  you  love  him  because  he  is  so 
thoroughly  a  man!" 

She  sat  still  for  a  long  time  after  that.  Her 
mind  was  busy.  As  a  detective,  she  was  ac- 
customed to  rely  on  her  own  resources.  Al- 
ways, when  a  case  was  entrusted  to  her,  she 
deliberately  laid  out  a  plan  of  campaign.  It 
was  characteristic  of  her  work  that  she  never 
proceeded  until  she  knew  which  way  she 
wanted  to  go.  Then  she  moved  directly  to- 
ward her  goal,  brushing  aside  casual  obsta- 
cles as  a  matter  of  course  and  without  dis- 
turbance. 

"Half-past  ten,"  she  murmured  reflectively, 


ON   PAROLE  207 

as  she  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  clock.  "He 
ought  to  be  at  his  hotel  by  this  time.  I'll  call 
him  up." 

There  was  a  telephone  in  her  room.  It  did 
not  take  her  long  to  get  Lieutenant  Collins  on 
the  wire.  The  gallant  officer  said  he  was  very 
pleased  to  hear  her  voice.  Incidentally,  he 
had  no  idea  who  was  speaking  to  him  until 
she  had  repeated  her  name  half  a  dozen  times. 
When  he  did  get  it  into  his  head,  however,  he 
gushed  forth  into  a  torrent  of  talk.  In  fact, 
he  did  not  seem  to  know  how  to  stop.  He  was 
a  well-meaning  young  man. 

"I  called  up  to  ask  what  you  did  with  your 
prisoner,"  she  interrupted,  with  business-like 
brevity. 

"My  prisoner?     Ah!     Yes!     Quite  so?" 

There  was  a  pause,  but  no  information,  al- 
though Madge  had  put  a  straight  question. 
The  lieutenant  had  run  dry.  Madge  tried  to 
start  the  sluggish  stream  of  his  ideas  with  a 
repetition  of  her  query. 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  prisoner, 
lieutenant?" 

"My  prisoner?  Ah!  Hum!  Yes!  Which 
prisoner  ?" 


208  THE  DESERTERS 

"I  didn't  think  you  had  more  than  one." 

"More  than  one?  No,  of  course  not.  Say, 
Miss  Summers,  that's  awfully  good!  Fine 
joke!  Ladies  have  much  more  wit  than  men. 
I've  always  said  so.  Ha,  ha,  ha !" 

A  loud  guffaw  came  hurtling  over  the  wire 
and  made  Madge  fall  back  a  little.  It  tickled 
her  ear.  What  on  earth  was  Lieutenant  Col- 
lins laughing  at?  Evidently  she  had  said 
something  dangerously  funny  without  know- 
ing it.  Again  she  tried  to  make  him  under- 
stand. 

"I  mean  Mr.  Craig,  formerly  a  lieutenant 
in  your  regiment." 

She  spoke  slowly  and  very  distinctly.  This 
time  he  understood. 

"Oh,  yes!  Craig!  Ah!  What  a  pity! 
Isn't  it,  Miss  Summers?" 

"It  is,  indeed.    But " 

"He's  such  a  fine  chap!  I  hate  to  take  him 
back.  Perhaps  he'U  get  out  of  his  scrape 
somehow.  I  don't  see  how  he's  to  do  it, 
though.  Murder,  you  know!  Awful  thing!" 

All  this,  of  course,  was  comforting  to 
Madge,  who  kept  herself  from  sobbing  only 
by  the  most  desperate  effort.  She  could  have 


ON   PAROLE  209 

driven  a  hatpin  into  Lieutenant  Collins.  But 
she  did  not  tell  him  so.  With  a  patience  that 
was  angelic  under  the  circumstances,  she  again 
put  the  main  question : 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  prisoner — 
Mr.  Craig?  The  man  whom  you  arrested  in 
my  sitting-room  at  the  Hotel  Waldemar  this 
evening  at  nine  o'clock?" 

"Oh,  he  is  in  a  comfortable  bedroom  in  this 
hotel.  It  is  next  to  my  own." 

"With  a  communicating  door,  I  suppose?" 

"No.  His  room  is  entirely  separate  and  shut 
off  from  mine,"  was  the  unexpected  answer. 

"He's  under  guard,  of  course?" 

"No.  Alone.  His  door  is  not  locked, 
either." 

A  few  chuckles  came  faintly  over  the  wire. 
Clearly  Lieutenant  Collins  was  enjoying  the 
surprise  he  believed  he  was  giving  her.  She 
waited  till  the  chuckles  subsided.  Then : 

"Aren't  you  afraid  your  prisoner  will  get 
away?" 

"No." 

"But  you  say  he  is  unguarded  and  in  an  un- 
locked room.  What  measures  have  you  taken 
to  keep  him  safe?" 


210  THE  DESERTERS 

"The  very  best,  Miss  Summers/'  in  a  firmer 
tone  than  he  had  used  heretofore.  "He  has 
given  his  parole!" 

"God  bless  you,  lieutenant !"  she  blurted  out, 
but  emotion  made  the  words  indistinct. 

"What  did  you  say,  Miss  Summers  ?" 

"I  said  I  was  glad  to  know  Mr.  Craig  was 
on  his  honor." 

"Ah!  Yes!  Of  course!  That  holds  a  fel- 
low firmer  than  anything  else,  you  know.  He 
might  break  out  of  a  prison,  or  slip  manacles 
off  his  hands.  But  when  he  has  pledged  his 
word  as  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  he  is  his 
own  guard — and — er — you  know,  that's  the 
most  trustworthy  one  he  could  have." 

"Do  you  consider  him  still  an  officer,  when 
he  has  run  away  from  his  regiment?" 

"I  consider  him  a  gentleman,  Miss  Sum- 
mers." 

"And  an  officer?" 

"Until  a  court-martial  decrees  otherwise." 

Now  that  he  was  speaking  of  matters  very 
near  to  his  heart,  the  uncertainty  in  the  lieu- 
tenant's voice  had  dropped  away.  There  was 
a  vigor  in  his  utterance  in  referring  to  Jim 
Craig,  the  officer  and  gentleman,  which  would 


ON    PAROLE  211 

have  assured  Madge — even  if  she  ever  had 
doubted  it — that  Lieutenant  Collins  was  the 
sort  of  man  who  not  only  would  give  orders 
coolly  in  the  face  of  the  enemy's  guns,  but 
would  fight  like  a  demon  in  the  charge. 

"You  will  leave  San  Francisco  on  the  mid- 
night train,  will  you  not?"  was  her  next 
question. 

"Yes.  There  is  no  other  that  would  suit 
us  so  well.  I  want  to  see  some  of  my  old 
brother-officers  at  the  fort  to-morrow.  So  I 
am  remaining  over  a  few  hours.  My  pris- 
oner, being  on  parole,  will  stay  in  his  quar- 
ters here  and  give  me  no  trouble/' 

"Of  course.  I  thought  of  taking  the  same 
train.  I  am  going  to  see  Colonel  Parsons." 

A  chuckle  of  the  true  Collins  brand  rattled 
in  the  receiver  at  Madge's  ear. 

"I  am  very  pleased  to  hear  you  say  that, 
Miss  Summers.  I  hope  you'll  allow  me  to  do 
what  I  can  for  your  comfort  on  the  trip/' 

"You  would  do  that  anyhow,  lieutenant.  I'm 
sure  of  that." 

There  was  a  soupgon  of  the  brogue  which 
gave  an  added  charm  to  her  speech  when  she 
chose  to  use  it.  Deep  as  was  the  wound  Jim 


212  THE   DESERTERS 

Craig  had  made  in  her  heart,  she  had  too 
buoyant  a  nature  not  to  be  amused  by  Lieu- 
tenant Collins.  This  little  banter  was  good 
for  her,  too.  It  relieved  somewhat  her  crush- 
ing horror  and  sorrow. 

"Will  you  let  me  come  for  you?"  asked  Col- 
lins eagerly. 

"Not  necessary.  I  can  ride  to  the  ferry  in 
a  taxi.  But — here's  a  favor  I  have  to  ask — 
may  I  see  Mr.  Craig  to-morrow  morning,  for 
a  few  moments  ?" 

"Most  certainly,  Miss  Summers.  He  is 
your  prisoner  as  much  as  mine.  I  never  could 
have  taken  him  but  for  you." 

Poor  Madge!  What  wonder  that  she  stag- 
gered back  from  the  telephone  and  pressed 
her  hand  to  her  side?  It  was  true!  Jim 
would  not  have  been  a  prisoner  but  for  her! 
And  there  was  this  chattering  booby  driving 
the  iron  into  her  soul,  with  a  complacent  un- 
consciousness of  doing  harm  that  was  mad- 
dening. She  had  to  answer  him,  however.  So 
she  pulled  herself  together,  and  said,  calmly — 
so  it  sounded  to  him : 

"Will  eleven  o'clock  do,  lieutenant?" 

"Excellently,  Miss  Summers.    For  that  mat- 


ON   PAROLE  213 

ter,  my  time  is  yours,  as  I'm  sure  you  under- 
stand. Shall  I  tell  Lieutenant  Craig  you  are 
coming?" 

She  hesitated.  It  was  so  important  for  her 
to  see  him!  If  he  would  let  her  talk  to  him 
now,  before  facing  an  official  investigation, 
there  was  a  possibility  of  finding  some  way 
out.  She  had  that  much  faith  in  herself.  But 
if  he  knew  she  were  coming,  would  he  consent 
to  see  her?  His  parole  gave  him  the  right  to 
exclude  visitors.  She  wouldn't  risk  it. 

"No;  please  do  not  tell  him,"  she  replied. 
"Not  till  I  come.  I  will  be  there  at  eleven. 
Good-by!" 

Lieutenant  Collins  never  did  know  why  she 
cut  him  off  so  abruptly.  But  if  he  could  have 
seen  the  other  end  of  the  wire  he  would  have 
understood.  So  blinded  by  tears  that  she  could 
hardly  hang  up  the  receiver,  Madge  Summers 
was  at  the  limit  of  her  endurance. 

She  threw  herself,  face  downward,  upon  the 
chintz-covered  couch.  There  was  a  storm  of 
sobs.  Merciful  Heaven!  How  she  did  cry! 
The  convulsion  lasted  for  some  time.  But — 
and  all  gratitude  be  to  beneficent  Nature — it 
ended  in  a  deep,  peaceful  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  FI,AG  OF  TRUCE 

THE  sun  was  shining  into  her  room  when 
Madge    awoke.      Sleeping   without    a 
coverlet  through  the  hours  in  which 
vitality  is  at  its  lowest,   she    felt   cold.      But 
aside  from  the  chill,  which  soon  passed  off,  she 
was  astonished  to  find  herself  so  fit,  both  phys- 
ically and  mentally. 

Madge  Summers  was  blessed  with  a  good 
constitution,  and  her  free,  open-air  life  kept 
it  up  to  concert  pitch.  For  a  few  minutes — or 
hours,  even — it  might  let  down,  like  a  fine 
musical  instrument.  But  only  temporarily  was 
she  ever  out  of  tune. 

Until  Jim  had  turned  on  her  so  savagely, 
and  denounced  her  in  such  bitter,  scalding  lan- 
guage, she  had  felt  able  to  go  through  with 
what  she  had  begun  without  flinching.  Then 
had  come  the  awful  arraignment  from  the  man 
she  loved,  and  she  broke  down !  It  was  with  a 

214 


A   FLAG   OF   TRUCE  215 

new  hope  that  she  found  this  morning  her 
usual  strength  had  returned — partly,  at  least. 

By  the  time  she  was  ready  to  go  out,  to 
keep  her  eleven-o'clock  appointment  with  Lieu- 
tenant Collins,  she  had  persuaded  herself  that 
it  would  be  comparatively  easy  to  get  Jim 
Craig  out  of  his  difficulty.  A  little  tact  was 
demanded ;  nothing  more. 

"How  is  he?"  was  her  first  question,  as  she 
met  Lieutenant  Collins  in  the  hotel  parlor. 

"The  old  chap  isn't  very  well,  I'm  sorry  to 
say,"  was  the  reply.  "He  looks  uncommonly 
seedy,  and  he's  in  the  devil's  own — I  beg  your 
pardon,  Miss  Summers.  I  mean,  he's  not  in 
a  good  humor.  That's  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
of  course.  I  should  say  a  man  would  be 
grouchy  when  he  expects  to  be  hanged." 

Even  Lieutenant  Collins,  with  his  unfortu- 
nate propensity  for  saying  the  wrong  thing, 
could  not  help  seeing  the  shudder  with  which 
Madge  received  this  remark.  He  would  have 
apologized  if  he  had  known  how  to  do  it.  As 
he  didn't,  he  smiled  feebly,  and  in  his  nervous- 
ness repeated  the  observation  in  another  form : 

"Deuced  unpleasant  sensation,  I  should  say 


216  THE   DESERTERS 

— hanging!  You  can't  wonder  at  poor  Craig 
feeling  grouchy." 

"May  I  see  him?"  asked  Madge. 

"Well — er — that's  the  worst  of  it,  you  see. 
Being  on  parole,  I  can't  force  him  to  do  any- 
thing he  doesn't  want.  And — er — er " 

"Did  he  say  he  wouldn't  see  me?" 

"Well— er— yes.  He  did,  in  effect.  I  told 
him  a  lady  would  like  to  see  him  for  a  few 
minutes  this  morning.  I  didn't  mention  your 
name.  I  only  said  a  lady." 

"But  he  knew  who  the  lady  was,  didn't  he  ?" 
demanded  Madge  impatiently. 

"I  don't  know." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

Madge's  tone  was  so  imperative  that  the 
lieutenant  felt  obliged  to  give  her  a  full  and 
direct  answer.  So  he  spluttered  frantically: 

"He  said  'Damn  the  lady !'  Then  I  came  out, 
leaving  him  marching  up  and  down  liked  a 

caged — er What's  that  animal  that  laughs 

when  it's  mad  ?  Oh,  yes !  A  hyena — a  caged 
hyena." 

There  was  a  rather  long  pause.  Lieutenant 
Collins,  twirling  his  uniform  cap  in  his  hands, 
watched  Madge  as  she  moved  about  the  large 


A  FLAG  OF  TRUCE  217 

bare  apartment — a  typical  hotel  parlor — think- 
ing. She  stopped  in  front  of  the  open  piano 
and  idly  played  with  one  hand  the  chorus  of  a 
popular  song  she  had  often  sung  at  Reilly's. 
Then,  with  a  suddenness  that  made  Lieutenant 
Collins  drop  his  cap,  she  announced: 

"I  am  going  up  to  Mr.  Craig's  room.  Do 
you  mind  taking  me  there?" 

"Not  at  all,  if  you  insist  upon  it." 

"Thanks." 

The  lieutenant  recovered  his  cap  and  stood 
aside,  with  a  bow,  as  she  passed  through  the 
doorway.  Two  minutes  later  they  stepped  out 
of  the  elevator  on  an  upper  floor  and  Collins 
knocked  at  a  door. 

"Come  in!"  called  out  a  voice  that  made  all 
the  color  leave  Madge's  cheeks. 

They  were  in  the  room.  Collins  had  well 
described  Jim  Craig  as  looking  "seedy."  He 
seemed  twenty  years  older  than  when  he  had 
come  in  to  see  Madge,  full  of  love  and  hope, 
the  evening  before.  Usually  he  was  well- 
groomed.  His  soldier  training  had  made  him 
careful  about  that,  even  when  he  was  drinking 
and  frequenting  Reilly's.  He  had  become 
slovenly  in  a  night.  But  that  his  clothes  were 


218  THE   DESERTERS 

of  good  material  and  cut,  he  could  have  been 
mistaken  for  a  confirmed  "hobo." 

"Jimf 

He  glared  as  if  he  did  not  know  her,  but 
felt  instinctively  that  she  was  an  enemy.  She 
stretched  out  her  hands  appealingly. 

"Jim !  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Will  you  let 
me?" 

He  did  not  answer.  She  took  silence  for 
consent.  Lieutenant  Collins  placed  a  chair  and 
she  sat  down. 

"Shall  I  go,  Miss  Summers?"  asked  Collins. 

"I  should  like  you  to  stay,  if  you  don't 
mind,"  was  her  answer.  "I  want  to  ask  Mr. 
Craig  a  few  questions  in  your  presence." 

The  lieutenant  bowed. 

"I  desire  to  say  to  Mr.  Craig,"  she  said 
quietly,  "that  until  last  night  I  had  no  idea 
there  was  any  charge  against  him  except  that 
of  striking  a  superior  officer  and  leaving  his 
regiment  without  permission." 

She  paused.  Jim  Craig  said  nothing,  but 
she  saw  he  was  listening. 

"Even  now,"  she  continued,  "I  do  not  know 
what  the  specific  accusation  is." 


A   FLAG   OF   TRUCE  219 

"Lieutenant  Craig  is  charged  with  killing 
Captain  Jolin  Harrison,"  said  Collins. 

"Were  there  any  witnesses?" 

"Yes." 

"How  many?" 

"One." 

"Who  was  it?" 

Lieutenant  Collins  fumbled  with  his  cap  and 
shifted  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other. 
At  last  he  replied,  in  a  low  voice: 

"That  I  cannot  tell  you." 

She  was  disappointed,  but  too  good  a  sol- 
dier to  press  the  query. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  suddenly  shouted  Craig.  "It 
was  Mrs.  Marston." 

Lieutenant  Collins  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Look  here,  old  chap,"  he  protested.  "You 
should  not  have  said  that.  Lawyers  for  the 
defense  always  warn  their  clients  that  any- 
thing they  say  may  be  used  against  them.  If 
Mrs.  Marston's  name  has  to  be  brought  into 
the  case,  take  my  advice  and  let  somebody  else 
do  it.  I  hope  Miss  Summers  will  forgive  me 
for  saying  this.  But  I  am  only  doing  my 
duty." 


220  THE  DESERTERS 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  lieutenant,"  she  re- 
sponded. "I  was  wrong  to  put  the  question 
to  Mr.  Craig.  But  for  his  own  sake  I  was 
anxious  to  know  how  strong  a  case  there  was 
against  him." 

"Oh,  the  case  is  strong  enough,"  snarled 
Jim.  "So  strong  that  there  cannot  be  any  mis- 
take." 

"Don't  say  that,  old  fellow!"  pleaded  Col- 
lins. 

"No,  don't— Jim "  she  added. 

"Keep  quiet,  both  of  you!"  he  yelled,  in  a 
fury.  "I  tell  you  there  cannot  be  any  mistake, 
because — /  admit  that  I  killed  him." 

"Jim!    Jim!" 

Her  imploring  voice  rang  loudly  through  the 
room,  and  Lieutenant  Collins  pushed  against 
the  door  to  make  sure  it  was  tightly  closed. 

"I  killed  him,  I  tell  you !"  repeated  Craig.  "I 
struck  him  down  because — because — he  threat- 
ened me." 

"Then  you  were  justified!"  cried  Madge 
eagerly. 

"Whether  I  was  justified  or  not,  I  did  it. 
But  not  intentionally.  As  truly  as  there  is  a 
heaven  above,  I  did  not  mean  to  kill  him. 


A   FLAG   OF  TRUCE  221 

When  he  fell  I  thought  he  was  only  stunned. 
Mrs.  Marston  and  I  tried  to  revive  him.  But 
he  would  not  come  to.  My  blow  had  been 
harder  than  I'd  intended,  and  he  never  spoke 
again." 

"You  mean,  after  you'd  shot  him?"  sug- 
gested Collins. 

"I  didn't  shoot  him.  I  knocked  him  down 
with  my  fist,"  said  Jim  curtly. 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  interrupted 
Madge.  "The  important  fact  is  that  Captain 
Harrison  threatened  you,  and  you  were  obliged 
to  attack  him  to  prevent  his  hurting  you. 
There  is  a  splendid  defence.  It  would  carry 
you  free  out  of  any  court  in  America." 

He  turned  away  and  stood  at  the  window, 
his  back  to  the  room.  Madge  realized  that  he 
was  not  himself,  and  she  wondered  whether 
she  could  accept  all  he  had  said  about  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  killing.  Only  for  a  moment 
did  she  doubt.  He — her  Jim — could  not  com- 
mit a  cowardly,  unprovoked  murder. 

"Lieutenant  Collins,  what  do  you  think  of 
it?"  she  whispered. 

"A  fairly  good  defence,  I  should  say.  I 
have  felt  that  from  the  beginning." 


222  THE   DESERTERS 

"Fairly  good?  Is  it  not  perfect?" 
"Well — er — you  see — there  are  points 
against  him  that  the  prosecution  is  sure  to  use. 
It's  been  talked  over  at  the  post  so  often  that 
it  is  rather  fixed  in  my  mind.  I'm  not  much 
of  a  lawyer,  but  some  of  our  fellows  in  the 
Sixth  are.  I'd  like  to  hear  them  address  a 
jury.  Talk  about  your  convincing  arguments 


"What  are  the  points?"  she  asked. 

"Why — er — there  were  evidences  that  Craig 
could  have  got  away  without  shooting  him 
if  he'd  cared  to  do  so." 

"Shooting?  He  says  he  did  not  sTioot — 
only  knocked  him  down  with  his  fist.  How 
was  Captain  Harrison  killed?" 

Before  Collins  could  answer,  Jim  Craig 
looked  around  from  the  window  and  jerked 
out  angrily : 

"Collins,  I  told  you  I  didn't  care  to  see  any- 
body. I  have  tolerated  this  lady  for  a  minute 
or  two  because  she  is  a  detective,  and  perhaps 
has  some  legal  right  to  badger  me.  Now,  if 
she  has  asked  all  that  is  in  her  mind,  I  should 
like  to  be  allowed  to  lie  down.  I  got  very  lit- 


A   FLAG   OF   TRUCE  223 

tie  sleep  last  night,  and  I  know  there  won't  be 
much  for  me  on  the  train." 

He  did  not  look  at  Madge.  His  manner  was 
that  of  one  who  had  an  uncertain  hold  on  his 
mentality,  but  was  fighting  hard  to  talk  nat- 
urally. 

Madge  rose  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 
He  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  as  he  might  have 
done  had  some  stranger  departed  from  the  con- 
ventions without  rhyme  or  reason.  With  his 
hands  behind  him,  he  turned  to  Collins: 

"Lieutenant,  I  think  you  said  we  would  go 
to  the  ferry  about  ten  o'clock  to-night  ?" 

"Yes.  The  train  does  not  leave  till  nearly 
one.  But  the  sleeping-cars  are  opened  three 
hours  earlier,  so  that  passengers  can  go  to  bed 
if  they  like.  I  will  have  your  property  brought 
from  your  apartment  this  afternoon.  My  men 
will  settle  with  the  landlord  and  bring  your 
things  here — clothing  and  so  forth — as  you 
have  asked." 

Lieutenant  Collins  saluted  his  prisoner  and 
stepped  outside  the  door.  For  an  instant 
Madge  and  Jim  Craig  were  alone  together. 
She  ran  toward  him  impulsively.  She  would 
have  thrown  her  arms  around  his  neck. 


224  THE   DESERTERS 

But  the  hard  glint  in  his  eyes  as  he  raised 
his  right  hand  in  salute — palm  outward  and 
thumb  bent  in — was  too  much  for  her.  With  a 
faint  cry,  that  was  more  than  half  a  moan,  she 
walked  slowly  from  him.  Then  she  went  out 
and  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
WITHIN  THE: 


THERE  was  a  warm  welcome  for  Madge 
from  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Parsons  when 
she  reached  the  post.  They  would  not 
allow  her  to  put  up  at  the  hotel  in  town.  She 
must  live  in  their  quarters.  This  meant  that 
she  was  made  very  comfortable,  for  at  every 
military  station  the  colonel  and  his  family  are 
always  as  well  housed  as  circumstances  will 
permit. 

It  was  the  afternoon  following  her  arrival. 
She  stood  alone  at  the  window  in  Colonel  Par- 
sons' office,  looking  across  the  parade  ground, 
just  as  she  had  on  that  other  bright  day,  when 
the  troopers  were  drilling,  before  she  left  for 
San  Francisco. 

The  lawn  was  not  quite  so  green  now.  The 
harvest  sun,  in  its  zeal  to  ripen  the  wheat  that 
stretched  away  in  all  directions  for  thousands 
of  acres,  had  slightly  yellowed  the  grass  as 

225 


226  THE  DESERTERS 

well.  But  it  was  very  restful  and  beautiful, 
nevertheless. 

Then  there  was  the  Flag.  As  it  rippled  out 
from  its  halyard,  it  lent  just  the  touch  of  bright 
color  the  scene  required  to  make  it  perfect. 
Involuntarily  her  hand  rose  to  the  salute.  She 
had  been  thinking  rather  sadly  up  to  this  mo- 
ment. But  the  flickering  shadow  of  the  Colors, 
darting  here  and  there  across  the  lawn,  paused 
over  her  head  like  a  benediction,  and  she 
smiled. 

"I'm  going  to  get  him  out  of  this  scrape.  I 
know  I  am.  I  can  see  already  that  the  case 
against  him  is  full  of  holes.  If  I  don't  make 
some  of  them  wide  enough  for  him  to  walk 
through,  it  will  be  because  he  actually  is  guilty 
— and  that  I  don't  believe." 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss  Summers!" 

It  was  the  cheery  voice  of  Colonel  Parsons. 
As  she  turned,  Doctor  Long,  who  had  entered 
with  him,  also  bade  her  good  afternoon. 

"Miss  Summers,  you  look  tired,"  declared 
the  doctor.  "That  was  a  long  trip  from  San 
Francisco.  I  hope  I'm  not  going  to  have  you 
for  a  patient." 


WITHIN   THE   LINES  227 

"Good  gracious !  No,  doctor !"  she  laughed. 
'What  sort  of  detective  should  I  make  if  I 
couldn't  stand  two  or  three  days  in  a  comforta- 
ble Pullman  car  ?  Why,  I've  ridden  fifty  miles 
on  horseback  and  not  minded  it." 

"All  the  same,  you  seem  worn  and  de- 
pressed," put  in  the  colonel.  "That  comes 
from  fatigue." 

"Not  always,  colonel,"  she  returned,  with  a 
wan  smile.  "Worry  does  it  sometimes." 

"That's  it  exactly,"  he  assented.  "You've 
been  worrying  over  this  case  of  poor  Craig 
until  you  are  unstrung.  I'm  afraid  the 
wretched,  gloomy  business  is  going  to  do  you 
serious  harm." 

"No  fear  of  that,  colonel.  But  it's  given 
me  a  great  deal  to  think  about.  Never  before 
have  I  taken  a  man  back  to  be  tried  for  mur- 
der." 

The  colonel  and  Surgeon-Major  Long  ex- 
changed glances.  The  latter  moved  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  out. 

"We  shouldn't  have  deceived  you,  my  dear," 
said  the  colonel,  as  he  placed  a  fatherly  hand 
on  her  shoulder.  "I've  wanted  to  tell  you,  for 


'228  THE  DESERTERS 

a  long  time,  that  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  let  you 
have  the  whole  truth  at  the  outset.  No,  I'm — 
I'm  afraid  you  are  suffering,  as  well  as  Craig." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  significance  in 
this  last  sentence.  It  told  her  that  Colonel 
Parsons  had  seen  something  she  did  not  think 
she  had  shown.  Well,  she  was  not  ashamed 
of  it.  Jim  Craig  was  more  to  her  than  any 
other  man  she  ever  had  met.  No  doubt  she 
had  betrayed  herself  to  everybody.  So  it  was 
with  something  of  defiance  that  she  replied : 

"Yes,  colonel,  I  am  suffering." 

"And  you  brought  him  back  in  spite  of  all 
you  may  have  felt !  Fine !  Fine !  As  soldierly 
as  your  father's  daughter  should  be." 

But  she  could  not  accept  praise  that  in  her 
heart  she  believed  to  be  undeserved.  She 
would  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  and  ease  her 
conscience — if  she  could.  So  she  said: 

"Don't  make  any  mistake  about  that,  colonel. 
While  I  was  on  this  case,  I  deserted,  too." 

"Did  you?  Well,  it  was  natural,  I  guess. 
But  you  fought  it  out  and  came  back  to  the 
old  Service  of  your  own  accord.  That  gives 
you  a  clean  record,  my  dear." 

"No.    I  never  came  back  really.    I  deserted 


WITHIN   THE  LINES          229 

for  life,"  she  insisted.  "I  found  I  cared  more 
for  his  military  career  than  for  anything,  and 
it  was  only  because  I  did  that  I  brought  him 
back.  You  see,  my  motive  was  a  selfish  one. 
I  was  not  considering  only  the  Service  in  giv- 
ing him  up." 

"But,  Miss  Summers,  you  were  bringing  him 
back  to  certain  death." 

"I  didn't  know  that.    If  I  had " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  Colonel 
Parsons  knew  perfectly  well  that  Jim  Craig 
would  not  have  been  in  the  guard-house  at  that 
moment — as  he  was — if  Madge  Summers  had 
had  even  a  suspicion  of  the  main  charge 
against  him. 

"Colonel,"  interrupted  Doctor  Long,  turn- 
ing from  the  window.  "If  Miss  Summers  and 
you  will  excuse  me,  I  have  to  go  over  to  the 
hospital  for  a  bit.  There  are  some  drunks 
and  two  or  three  broken  heads  waiting  for  me. 
Lord !  If  only  the  lads  would  remember  how 
short  life  is,  they  would  not  try  so  hard  to 
put  an  end  to  it !" 

"All  right,  doctor,"  replied  the  colonel.  "Go 
ahead!  The  boys  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"Humph !    I'm  not  so  glad  to  see  them,  the 


230  THE  DESERTERS 

idiots !"  snapped  the  doctor.  "By  the  way,  I've 
got  to  look  after  Marston." 

Madge  listened  eagerly.  It  was  in  Marston's 
parlor  that  Captain  Harrison  had  met  his 
death. 

"Marston?  Is  he  on  the  sick  list?  He  al- 
ways turns  out  for  drill." 

"Yes.  With  his  hands  shaking  so  that  he 
can  hardly  sheathe  his  sword,  and  a  face  like 
some  creature  let  out  of  hell  for  an  hour  or 
two !  I  can't  make  out  what's  the  matter  with 
the  man.  He's  been  living  on  bromides  for 
weeks." 

"Poor  chap!  He  was  a  friend  of  Craig's. 
I  suppose  he  feels  it  deeply." 

"Well,"  grunted  Doctor  Long,  "there's  one 
thing:  His  malady  won't  be  aggravated  by 
the  usual  hysterical  sympathy  at  home.  If 
ever  I  saw  cool,  self-centred  indifference  per- 
sonified, it  is  Mrs.  Marston." 

And  the  doctor  grumbled  himself  out  of  the 
room  and  stalked  over  to  the  post  hospital,  to 
look  after  his  drunks  and  broken  heads.  Col- 
onel Parsons  turned  to  Madge  with  more  ear- 
nestness than  he  had  yet  shown. 

"My  dear  Miss  Summers,    all    this  is  too 


WITHIN  THE  LINES          231 

much  for  you.  Take  my  advice  and  go  home 
to  Washington.  There  will  be  a  court-martial 
on  Thursday — a  miserable  business,  to  find  out 
whether  we  must  turn  Craig  over  to  the  civil 
authorities  for  trial.  You  will  be  better  away 
from  the  post  when  it  is  going  on." 

"It  is  for  the  court-martial  I  want  to  stay." 

He  fixed  his  keen  eyes  upon  her,  noting  her 
slim,  neat  figure  and  girlish  features.  (The 
latter,  by  the  way,  seemed  rather  to  rebel  at 
the  determined  expression  into  which  she  had 
drawn  them.) 

"Now,  my  dear!  Out  with  it!"  he  said 
shortly. 

"What?" 

He  gave  her  a  grim  smile,  as  he  replied. 

"You  can't  fool  a  man  as  old  as  I  am.  I 
know  well  enough  you  have  some  scheme  back 
of  those  tired  eyes  of  yours.  What  are  you 
getting  at,  eh  ?" 

"Well,  I  want  to  stay  here — not  only  for  the 
court-martial,  but  to  go  on  with  my  case — the 
case  of  James  Craig." 

"Your  case  ?  My  dear  girl,  youVe  done  your 
work — splendidly.  There  is  nothing  more  for 
you  to  do." 


232  THE   DESERTERS 

"Pardon  me.  I  was  sent  on  the  case  of  Cap- 
tain Harrison's  murder — even  though  I  did 
not  know  it  at  first.  Therefore  I  am  privileged 
to  keep  on  until  the  final  decision  is  rendered." 
She  paused  a  few  seconds,  ere  she  added  sol- 
emnly: "Colonel  Parsons,  Lieutenant  Craig  is 
innocent  of  that  crime.  I  am  sure  of  it." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Sure  of  it?  Ah,  Miss  Summers,  if  I  were 
sure  of  it,  I  should  be  happier  than  I've  been 
since  the  horrible  thing  happened.  But  the 
facts  are  obvious." 

"I  admit  they  do  appear  obvious,"  she  said. 
"But  I  have  learned  that  the  facts  are  entan- 
gled with  a  tissue  of  lies  which  seem  to  be 
meaningless.  Now,  any  falsehoods  in  a  case 
demand  investigation.  I  should  like  to  find  out 
who  told  the  lies  and  why." 

"The  accusation  against  Craig  is  proven. 
And  even  if  it  were  not,  how  are  you,  a  young 
girl,  to  unearth  the  scandals  of  an  army 
post?" 

Madge  had  been  seated.  She  arose  from 
her  chair  and  drew  herself  up  with  a  dignity 
which  impressed  the  gruff  old  soldier,  in  spite 
of  himself. 


WITHIN    THE   LINES  233 

"I  have  a  profession,  colonel,  and  it  is  an  im- 
portant one.  You  will  concede  that?" 

He  bowed  his  gray  head  in  assent,  keeping 
his  eyes  on  her  admiringly. 

"Very  well,  colonel.  In  that  profession  it  is 
my  business  to  unearth  scandals  in  all  sorts  of 
places.  I  am  a  detective — one  to  whose  judg- 
ment and  ability  you  must  have  trusted  when 
you  gave  me  this  case.  I  tell  you,  as  an  expert, 
not  as  a  woman,  that  an  injustice  has  been 
done.  I  thought  I  was  employed  to  bring  back 
a  deserter,  and  I  did  it.  But  you  really  wished 
me  to  find  a  murderer,  and  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
have  done  that." 

"You  have,  my  dear.  I  wish  you  hadn't. 
What  do  you  want  to  do  more  ?" 

"It  is  not  only  what  I  want.  It's  what  I'm 
going  to  do.  When  you  sent  me  away  less 
than  two  months  ago,  it  was  to  find  the  mur- 
derer of  Captain  Harrison.  You  did  not  in- 
struct me  so,  but  that  was  what  you  meant." 

He  made  a  shamefaced  gesture  of  affirma- 
tion. 

"Will,  I  haven't  got  the  murderer  yet.  But 
I'm  going  to  get  him  for  you." 

"All  right,  Miss  Summers.    We  would  like 


234  THE   DESERTERS 

the  truth,  if  we  can  get  it.  You  know  how 
much  time  you  have  before  the  court-martial. 
If  you  think  you  can  find  any  fresh  evidence, 
why,  go  ahead." 

"Thank  you." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  help  these 
investigations  along?"  he  growled. 

"Yes,  there  is.  You  could  do  me  a  favor. 
But  I  don't  know  how  to  ask  for  it." 

"Stuff!    Out  with  it!" 

"It  is  a  very  big  favor  I  want.  But  you  can 
grant  it,  if  you  will." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  want  you  to  let  me  see  Mr.  Craig  this 
evening.  There  are  certain  things  I  want  to 
ask  him  about — that  I  must  ask  him." 

The  colonel  frowned  and  stamped  up  and 
down  the  room.  It  was  the  way  he  generally 
tried  to  blow  off  steam  when  hard  pressed.  At 
last,  stopping  in  front  of  her,  he  said : 

"I'm  afraid  that  is  out  of  the  question,  my 
dear.  It's  against  all  precedent.  Besides,  he 
won't  talk  to  any  one — won't  open  his  head. 
Hasn't  since  he  was  brought  in.  Have  you  any 
special  reason  for  expecting  him  to  be  com- 
municative to  you?" 


WITHIN   THE   LINES          235 

"No,"  she  answered  drearily.  "I  haven't. 
But  I  must  see  him." 

"This  is  not  a  time  for — sentiment." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him  for  sentiment.  It's 
business." 

"Can't  be  done." 

"Colonel!    Please!" 

The  old  war-horse  swore  below  his  breath. 

"Look  here !"  he  snorted.  "It  is  against  all 
precedent.  And  he  won't  talk  to  any  one.  And 
it  isn't  a  time  for  sentiment.  And  it's  unques- 
tionably bad  discipline.  And — and Well, 

when  do  you  say  you  want  to  see  him  ?" 

"This  evening.  I'll  go  to  the  guard-house, 
if  you'll  give  me  a  pass." 

The  good  colonel  treated  himself  to  another 
half-audible  oath,  as  he  sat  down  to  his  desk 
and  pulled  a  sheet  of  paper  toward  him.  Then 
he  pushed  it  away. 

"No  need  to  write  a  pass,"  he  growled.  "I 
wouldn't  trust  you  there  alone.  In  his  present 
state  of  mind,  Craig  is  dangerous.  I'll  send 
Lieutenant  Collins  with  you.  Will  that  suit 
you?  Do  you  mind  having  Collins  along?" 

"I  should  like  it.  Lieutenant  Collins  and  I 
are  very  good  friends." 


236  THE   DESERTERS 

"All  right.  That's  settled.  Now  go  into 
the  drawing-room  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Parsons 
and  the  girls.  They  are  all  dying  to  put  you 
through  a  catechism  about  San  Francisco. 
They  have  a  lot  of  friends  in  that  city.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  went  much  into  society 
there  or  not." 

"Yes,  I  went  a  great  deal  into  society,"  an- 
swered Madge,  smiling.  "But  I  don't  think 
the  people  I  met  are  in  the  same  set  as  Mrs. 
Parsons'  friends." 

"Oh,  I  guess  they  are.  There's  only  one  so- 
ciety in  San  Francisco  that  amounts  to  any- 
thing. At  all  events,  go  in  and  see  her." 

Madge  thought  of  Reilly's,  with  "Reddy," 
Scroggs  and  the  rest,  and  she  smiled  slightly. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  just  now.  I  have  an- 
other engagement  this  afternoon." 

"Another  engagement?  How?  What? 
Oh,  very  well!  In  that  case  we  shall  see  you 
at  dinner,  of  course — before  you  go  to  Craig?" 

"Thank  you,  colonel,  I  shall  trespass  on  you 
for  dinner,"  she  answered,  as  she  walked  to 
the  door.  "And  thank  you  so  much  for  allow- 
ing me  to  talk  to  Mr.  Craig." 

"You  can  see  him — because  I  have  promised 


WITHIN   THE  LINES          237 

you.    But — by  George!  I'm  not  so  sure  there'll 

be  any  talking." 

"I'll  have  to  take  chances  on  that." 

She  went  out  and  walked  straight  to  the 

quarters  of  Lieutenant  Marston.  That  was  her 

other  engagement ! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

UNDER 


IT  is  usual  enough  in  an  army  post  for  the 
wives  and  daughters  of  officers  to  visit 
each  other.  Indeed,  the  social  life  of  a 
garrison  is  of  more  importance  to  them  than  all 
tne  military  problems  that  trouble  their  hus- 
bands put  together.  Afternoon  calls  go  on, 
even  though  a  declaration  of  war  may  just 
have  been  made.  Drilling,  parading,  and  fight- 
ing are  men's  work.  The  women  must  amuse 
themselves.  How  can  they  do  that  better  than 
in  gossiping?  So,  when  the  maid  belonging  to 
the  Marston  household  announced  "A  lady  to 
see  you,  ma'am!"  Mrs.  Marston  bounced  off 
the  sofa,  where  she  was  pretending  to  do  some- 
thing in  the  embroidery  way,  and  stood  ready 
to  welcome  her  caller. 

A  handsome  woman  was  Blanche  Marston 
—  but  of  a  loud  type.  There  was  rather  too 
pronounced  a  red-and-white  coloring  in  her 

238 


UNDER  FIRE  239 

face,  and  perhaps  a  shade  too  much  assurance 
in  her  demeanor.  A  vague  rumor  was  afloat 
that  she  had  been  a  "show  girl"  before  George 
Marston  married  her.  His  brother-officers 
liked  her  all  the  better  on  that  account.  They 
regarded  her,  and  spoke  of  her,  among  them- 
selves, as  "a  good  fellow." 

Things  had  not  been  pleasant  for  Blanche 
after  the  tragedy  in  her  sitting-room  on  the 
night  that  Jim  Craig  disappeared.  The  gen- 
eral attitude  toward  her  was  one  of  half-con- 
temptuous pity.  It  had  been  common  talk  that 
she  had  been  indiscreet — not  to  use  a  stronger 
word — with  Captain  Harrison,  the  murdered 
man.  It  was  further  said  that  she  had  flirted 
with  Craig,  but  not  seriously. 

Marston  knew  all  this  after  the  slaying  of 
Captain  Harrison,  even  if  he  had  not  before. 
He  was  of  a  fiercely  jealous  disposition,  and 
nowadays  everybody  was  sure  his  wife  heard 
from  him  pretty  often  about  her  intrigue  with 
Harrison.  As  for  Craig,  that  affair  was  only 
a  peccadillo,  and  he  could  afford  to  look 
over  it. 

It  was  not  likely  so  shallow  a  creature  would 
feel  real  distress  over  the  killing  of  one  man 


240  THE  DESERTERS 

by  another  for  her  sake.  Some  of  the  regi- 
mental women  declared  she  was  secretly 
pleased,  because  it  flattered  her  vanity.  Oth- 
ers took  the  charitable  view  that  perhaps  there 
never  had  been  anything  between  her  and  Har- 
rison, after  all. 

As  Madge  entered,  Mrs.  Marston  put  out  a 
hand  tentatively.  But  Madge  merely  bowed. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Marston?" 

"Ye-es." 

"My  name  is  Summers — Miss  Madge  Sum- 
mers." 

The  white  in  Blanche  Marston's  face  sud- 
denly covered  a  larger  area  than  usual,  dis- 
placing some  of  the  pink.  But  it  was  in  a  per- 
fectly controlled  voice,  with  a  dash  of  patron- 
age, that  she  returned : 

"Ah!  Yes.  The  detective?  I've  heard  of 
you.  Sit  down,  won't  you?" 

Madge  saw  that  in  the  matter  of  nerve  she 
had  met  her  match.  It  gave  her  a  thrill  of 
pleasure.  In  the  anticipation  of  a  duel  worth 
while,  she  felt  a  warm  tingle  all  through  her. 
It  was  in  her  gentlest  tone  that  she  said,  as  she 
seated  herself: 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  me  too  much  of  a 


UNDER  FIRE  241 

nuisance.  I've  come  to  ask  your  help  with  re- 
gard to  Lieutenant  Craig." 

"Oh,  yes,"  purred  Blanche.  "The  deserter 
you  brought  back  a  little  while  ago.  I  don't 
see  how  /  can  help  you." 

"I  understand  it  was  in  your  house  that  the 
murder  took  place." 

Madge  emphasized  the  word  "murder,"  and 
looked  straight  into  Blanche  Marston's  baby- 
blue  eyes.  There  was  not  a  quiver  of  a  lash  so 
far  as  she  could  detect. 

"Hard  as  nails !"  was  Madge's  inward  com- 
ment. 

"Excuse  me,  Miss  Summers,"  said  Blanche 
amiably,  after  a  pause.  "But — er — are  you  still 
retained  in  the  case  ?  I  gathered  that  your  pro- 
fessional duties  had  been  performed — admira- 
bly, I  don't  doubt — and  that  they  were  now  en- 
tirely at  an  end." 

"That's  true.  Officially  my  connection  with 
the  case  is  over.  My  investigation  now  is  on 
my  own  account.  I  am  doing  it  quite  inde- 
pendently, for  my  personal  satisfaction." 

"Rather  an  unusual  proceeding  for  a  de- 
tective, isn't  it?  I  should  have  thought  you 
would  be  glad  to  drop  the  case  from  your  mind 


242  THE  DESERTERS 

when  you  had  finished  your  work,  and — been 
paid  for  it    I  presume  you  have  been  paid." 

The  intention  to  be  insolent  was  obvious. 
Madge  made  a  mental  note  of  it,  but  took  no 
outward  heed. 

"I  have  been  making  a  few  inquiries  since  I 
returned  from  the  West,"  she  said,  in  a  mat- 
ter-of-fact way,  "and  I  am  rather  puzzled  by 
what  I  have  learned.  There  seems  to  be  some- 
thing more  in  the  affair  than  I  first  suspected." 

Blanche  had  been  reclining  in  a  graceful  at- 
titude on  the  sofa,  flinging  her  remarks  at 
Madge  over  her  shoulder.  She  knew,  by  ex- 
perience, that  that  sort  of  thing  was  most  ir- 
ritating. Now  she  suddenly  sat  up,  to  ask 
sharply : 

"Do  you   think,    Miss — er — Summers,  that 
Colonel  Parsons  would  approve  of  this — er— 
unofficial  investigation  ?" 

"I  feel  very  sure,"  was  the  prompt  rejoinder, 
"that  Colonel  Parsons  would  sanction  any  in- 
vestigation, official  or  unofficial,  which  proved 
to  him  that  a — mistake — had  been  made." 

She  stabbed  the  word  "mistake"  at  Mrs. 
Marston  purposely.  She  could  not  be  certain 


UNDER  FIRE  243 

that  that  pink-and-white  personage  changed 
color — her  "make-up"  was  baffling — but  she 
saw  the  blue  eyes  close  a  little  for  an  instant. 

"Well,  my  dear  Miss  Summers,  of  course, 
everybody  will  be  delighted  if  you  can  do  any- 
thing to  make  poor  Lieutenant  Craig's  case  ap- 
pear less  damaging.  He  was  such  a  nice  boy !" 

"You  knew  him  very  well  ?" 

"I — er — Lieutenant  Marston  did." 

"Why,  I  meant,  of  course,  Lieutenant  Mars- 
ton  and  yourself." 

The  wondering  tone  in  which  Madge  made 
this  reply  cut  deeply.  Blanche  saw  that  she  had 
bertayed  herself,  and  she  broke  out,  seemingly 
reckless  of  what  she  said : 

"As  I  suppose  you  know,  it — the  tragedy — 
took  place  in  our  parlor.  But  I  knew  nothing 
of  it  at  the  time.  Captain  Harrison  had  been 
calling.  It  was  late,  and  I  was  tired.  I  went 
upstairs  to  bed.  The  captain  took  a  book  and 
said  he  would  wait  for  my  husband.  I  fell 
asleep.  The  first  I  knew  of  the  murder  was 
when  Mr.  Marston  came  in  and  told  me  Cap- 
tain Harrison  had  been  shot." 

"Shot?    I  thought  he  was  killed  by  a  blow." 


244  THE   DESERTERS 

The  sudden  look  of  terror  and  bewilderment 
in  Blanche  Marston's  eyes  was  a  confession 
that  she  knew  she  had  said  too  much. 

"He  was  shot  through  the  heart,"  she  said, 
as  she  recovered  herself  a  little. 

"But  you  did  not  hear  the  shot?' 

"No.    My  room  is  upstairs." 

"Overhead?" 

"Yes.  That  is — no,  not  exactly  overhead. 
At  the  back  of  the  house.  But  I  am  a  very 
sound  sleeper.  Besides,  I  am  so  used  to  the 
noise  of  firearms " 

She  was  talking  very  fast  and  nervously. 
Madge's  heart  beat  hard.  She  recalled  oc- 
casional references  to  a  shot — by  Lieutenant 
Collins,  among  others — that  she  had  not  un- 
derstood, but  to  which  she  had  paid  little  atten- 
tion at  the  time. 

"Please  tell  me,"  she  said.  "I'm  stupid  about 
all  this.  What  proof  is  there  that  Mr.  Craig 
killed  the  man?" 

Blanche  Marston,  fighting  to  keep  her  nerve, 
replied  glibly  r 

"My  husband  found  him  standing  over  the 
body,  with  the  pistol  in  his  hand." 


UNDER   FIRE  245 

"Then  you  were  not  a  witness.  It  is  only  on 
Lieutenant  Marston's  testimony  that " 

"It  is  on  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Craig  having 
quarreled  with  Captain  Harrison,"  came  the 
quick  interruption.  "It's  on  the  testimony  of 
his  having  run  away — and  his  pistol  on  the 
floor.  That  is  enough,  it  seems  to  me." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Madge  said 
meditatively : 

"He  put  his  pistol  down  on  the  floor,  and 
Lieutenant  Marston  let  him  run  away.  It  is  a 
curious  case." 

Blanche  sprang  to  her  feet,  in  a  storm  of 
rage  and  terror.  She  had  trapped  herself,  and 
she  knew  it.  Why  had  she  consented  to  talk 
to  this  girl  at  all,  with  her  innocent  manner 
and  calm  voice  ?  Why  hadn't  she  insisted  on 
the  detective  seeing  her  husband?  He  was 
clever  and  could  lie  well.  She  was  not  a  bright 
woman,  as  he  had  told  her  more  than  once. 
When  her  wits  were  confused  by  panic,  she  be- 
came a  downright  imbecile. 

"Miss  Summers,"  she  panted.  "I  don't  in 
the  least  know  the  object  of  these  questions, 
nor  what  you  are  trying  to — to — prove.  But 


246  THE   DESERTERS 

I  do  know  that  your  attitude  is — is  insuffera- 
bly insolent.  You  are  speaking  as  if  you 
really  thought  Lieutenant  Marston  and  I  were 
trying  to  hide  something.  It's  preposterous! 
As  for  my  husband  having  let  Jim  Craig  go, 
he  struggled  with  him  and  wrenched  the  pistol 
out  of  his  hand.  Mr.  Craig  was  my  husband's 
friend.  You  are,  perhaps,  too — too  business- 
like— to  understand  how  one  man  might  give 
another — a  comrade  whom  he  loved — one  last 
chance  to  get  away." 

"That  was  a  clever  switch,"  thought  Madge. 
"I  didn't  think  she  had  it  in  her.  A  comrade 
whom  he  loved,  eh?  Ah!" 

She  got  up  from  her  chair,  her  gaze  wan- 
dering casually  to  the  door  where  Captain  Har- 
rison had  appeared  on  that  night,  to  meet  his 
death  soon  afterward. 

"Thanks,  Mrs.  Marston,"  she  said,  with  a 
slight  bow.  "You've  helped  me  a  great  deal." 

"Have  I?" 

What  was  this  girl-detective  driving  at? 

"Indeed  you  have,"  smiled  Madge.  "Chiefly 
because  you  have  shown  me  just  how  much 
truth  there  was  in  my  own  conjectures.  I  can 


UNDER  FIRE  247 

quite  see,  after  hearing  your  account  of  it, 
what  a  perfectly  clear,  simple  case  it  is." 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes.  So  I  think  I'll  just  tell  Colonel  Par- 
sons I  shall  leave  in  the  morning.  I  don't  want 
to  wait  for  the  court-martial." 

Ah !  She  was  going  away !  In  the  reaction 
of  great  relief,  Blanche  became  gracious. 
Smilingly  she  complimented  Madge  on  her 
professional  achievements.  She  could  not  re- 
sist her  cattish  tendency  to  throw  in  a  scratch, 
in  the  guise  of  good-humored  candor,  however. 

"I  am  glad  to  have  been  able  to  set  you  right 
in  some  of  the  details  of  this  dreadful  affair," 
she  said.  "Even  the  cleverest  detectives  over- 
reach themselves  a  bit  sometimes,  don't  they? 
And  I  want  to  beg  your  pardon  for  losing  my 
temper  a  minute  ago.  Of  course,  I  shouldn't 
have  minded  what  you  said.  In  your  rather 
unpleasant  business  you  detectives  have  to  de- 
pend largely  on  your  imaginations.  Every- 
body knows  that." 

"Yes,  our  imaginations  do  bother  us  a  great 
deal  sometimes,"  returned  Madge  sweetly. 
"For  instance,  I  am  still  wondering  why  Mr. 


248  THE   DESERTERS 

Craig  should  have  followed  Captain  Harrison 
to  your  house  and  killed  him  there." 

"He  was  drunk." 

"Oh,  wcwhe?" 

"I — I've  heard  so.  Who  knows  what  men 
quarrel  about?" 

"What  makes  you  think  they  quarreled?" 

"Why,  they  must  have " 

"But  you  see,"  insisted  Madge,  in  her  most 
serious  detective  manner,  "that  is  an  important 
point.  If  we  could  thoroughly  establish  that 
Captain  Harrison  and  Mr.  Craig  really  quar- 
reled violently  about  anything,  it  would  prac- 
tically remove  all  doubt  of  Mr.  Craig's  guilt." 

"Well,  they  did  quarrel.  I  know,  because  I 
heard  them." 

Madge  wrinkled  her  forehead,  but  only 
slightly,  as  she  said,  in  her  most  winning  tone : 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Marston,  now  that  all  this 
disagreeable  business  has  been  talked  over  and 
done  with,  I'm  going  to  ask  you  a  favor." 

Blanche  started  in  evident  alarm.  What 
was  coming  now?  But  Madge,  smiling  still 
more  sweetly,  soon  reassured  her. 

"It's  nothing  dreadful — only  silly.  You  see, 
I'm  going  to  call  on  Colonel  Parsons,  and — 


UNDER  FIRE  249 

IVe  forgotten  my  powder-puff.  Would  you 
lend  me " 

It  was  a  silly  thing  to  ask,  no  doubt.  But, 
for  some  reason  it  frightened  Mrs.  Marston. 
She  stammered  something,  and  seemed  to  be 
seeking  for  an  excuse,  when  Madge,  who  had 
been  looking  into  her  hand-bag,  continued — her 
smile  becoming  a  deprecatory  laugh : 

"Why,  how  stupid  of  me!  Here's  my  puff, 
in  my  vanity-box.  I  shan't  have  to  trouble  you, 
after  all.  Gpod-by— and  thank  you  so  much." 

She  looked  about  the  room,  as  if  she  did  not 
quite  remember  where  the  outer  exit  was. 
Then,  before  Blanche  could  interfere,  she  had 
moved  swiftly  over  to  the  door  whence  Cap- 
tain Harrison  had  emerged  that  night,  and 
flung  it  wide  open. 

It  was  a  bedroom!  One  swift  glance  at  the 
dainty  furnishings,  the  pretty  fripperies,  the 
full-length  mirror,  and  the  dresser — littered 
with  powder,  perfumes,  hatpins,  bits  of  ribbon 
and  lace,  and  other  feminine  accessories — told 
Madge  that  it  was  Mrs.  Marston's  bedcham- 
ber. 

Blanche  had  lied  when  she  said  she  slept  up- 
stairs. Madge  Summers  had  had  good  reason 


250  THE   DESERTERS 

to  think  so  before  she  saw  the  room.  She  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  learn  the  plan  of  the  Mars- 
ton  house  from  Lieutenant  Collins,  on  the  train 
from  San  Francisco.  If  she  were  going  to  help 
the  man  she  loved,  she  must  know  all  the  de- 
tails that  might  be  pieced  together  for  his  bene- 
fit. 

"Miss  Summers!"  cried  Blanche,  in  indig- 
nant protest.  "That  is  not  the  way  out." 

"No,  I  see  it  is  not,  my  dear  Mrs.  Marston. 
But,  as  I  said  just  now,  I  am  so  stupid  about 
some  things.  Good  afternoon!" 

With  the  smile  that  Blanche  could  not 
fathom,  Madge  bowed  and  went  out,  closing 
the  door  behind  her.  As  she  walked  across  the 
parade-ground,  her  step  was  lighter  than  it 
had  been  before  the  interview. 

Mrs.  Marston  was  watching  her  angrily 
from  behind  the  lace  curtains  of  her  sitting- 
room.  Madge  knew  that,  too.  She  was  a 
woman,  and  therefore  versed  in  the  ways  of 
her  sex. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MOVEMENT 


THE  great  discrepancy  between  Jim 
Craig's  story  of  the  homicide  and  that 
of  every  one  else  about  the  post  Madge 
had  not  yet  reconciled.  It  had  come  to  her 
first  in  San  Francisco,  and  again  on  the  train. 
Lieutenant  Collins  had  said  what  she  had  just 
heard  from  Mrs.  Marston  —  that  Captain  Har- 
rison had  been  shot  and  that  Lieutenant 
Craig's  pistol  was  found  by  the  side  of  the 
body.  Other  persons  had  mentioned  a  shot. 
Jim's  own  account  was  that  he  had  struck  the 
man  down  with  a  blow  of  his  fist,  and  that  it 
had  killed  him.  Jim  would  tell  the  truth.  She 
was  sure  of  that. 

If  Captain  Harrison  was  shot,  as  many  wit- 
nesses testified,  who  shot  him? 

Blanche  Marston  knew.  There  was  the  per- 
son who  held  the  key  to  the  whole  situation. 
Madge's  little  ruse  about  the  powder-puff  had 

251 


252  THE   DESERTERS 

helped  to  make  that  clear.  To  get  the  puff, 
Blanche  would  have  had  to  go  to  her  bedroom, 
and  thus  have  convicted  herself  of  falsehood 
in  saying  that  she  slept  upstairs. 

Allowing  that  she  had  been  in  her  room 
when  Captain  Harrison  was  shot,  she  must 
have  heard  the  report  of  the  pistol,  even  if  the 
noise  of  the  quarrel  had  not  reached  her.  But 
Madge  did  not  believe  that  she  was  asleep  at 
all. 

"I  am  positive  that  woman  saw  Captain  Har- 
rison killed/'  she  meditated,  half  aloud,  as  she 
reached  her  bedroom  in  the  Parsons'  home. 
"What  is  more,  I  believe  she  was  the  prime 
cause  of  the  trouble.  I  wish  Jim  had  never 
cared  for  such  an  empty-headed,  heartless  crea- 
ture. But  the  average  man  is  not  a  saint.  And 
my  boy  is  an  average  man — God  bless  him! 
It  is  not  hard  to  understand  how  she  could 
have  fascinated  him — in  a  way.  Such  women 
are  attractive  to  men  to  a  degree.  They  can't 
hold  them  very  long.  But  for  the  little  time  a 
woman  of  that  kind  does  keep  a  man — such  a 
one  as  Jim,  for  instance — he  is  entirely  at  her 
mercy.  He  would  go  to  perdition  for  her  sake. 
And  very  often  he  does." 


A  FLANK   MOVEMENT         253 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  threw  it  aside  care- 
lessly. The  fact  that  it  rolled  from  a  chair  to 
the  floor  and  was  permitted  to  stay  there  would 
prove,  if  there  were  nothing  else,  that  the 
young  lady  was  in  a  disturbed  state  of  mind. 
Her  head  felt  hot.  So  she  loosened  her  hair 
and  let  it  fall  over  her  shoulders. 

As  she  stood  in  front  of  the  mirror,  pushing 
back  the  thick  hair  with  her  two  hands,  her  pale 
face  became  very  haggard. 

"The  court-martial  will  be  the  day  after  to- 
morrow," she  mused.  "They  will  hold  a  pre- 
liminary investigation,  and  then — he  will  be 
turned  over  to  the  civil  authorities  to  be  tried 
for  murder !" 

The  afternoon  sunshine,  pouring  through 
the  open  window,  had  made  the  lowered  shade 
too  hot  to  touch.  But  she  shivered,  notwith- 
standing, as  she  murmured : 

"How  I  do  hate  a  criminal  court !  The  close 
room — for  it  always  is  close;  the  grim  bench, 
with  the  high  desk  and  railing,  so  that  you  can 
see  only  the  judge's  head  and  shoulders;  the 
twelve  jurymen — such  a  miscellaneous  lot  of 
unsympathetic  men ;  the  counsel,  in  their  plain 
citizens'  clothes;  the  court  officers,  buzzing 


254  THE   DESERTERS 

about  full  of  importance;  the  musty-looking 
people — most  of  them  brought  there  only  by 
curiosity — in  the  seats  for  the  public;  the  wit- 
ness, all  in  a  white  sweat  as  he  is  badgered  by 
the  lawyers.  And,  in  the  middle  of  it  all,  the 
pale-faced  man  who  may  leave  that  room  only 
for  a  stone  cell  and — the  hangman !" 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  put 
her  hands  to  her  face.  As  Blanche  Marston 
had  remarked  about  detectives  in  general, 
Madge  had  a  strong  imagination,  and  she  had 
conjured  up  a  picture  that  was  as  real  as  if  it 
were  before  her  eyes. 

"There  is  nothing  in  that  kind  of  court 
which  suggests  chivalry  or  a  man  fighting  on 
even  terms,"  she  continued.  "It  is  all  so  hid- 
eously one-sided.  At  a  court-martial  it  is  just 
the  opposite.  To  begin  with,  everything  looks 
different,  from  the  military  uniforms  to  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  draped  behind  the  presiding 
officer !  Why,  the  Flag  alone  gives  assurance 
at  once  that  the  case  is  to  be  tried  on  its  merits, 
and  those  only.  There  is  nothing  of  prejudice 
against  the  prisoner  in  a  court-martial.  The 
witnesses  tell  simply  what  they  know,  and,  as 
a  rule,  they  would  rather  soften  it  for  him,  if 


A   FLANK   MOVEMENT        255 

they  could.  They  are  soldiers — his  comrades ! 
A  soldier  should  not  be  tried  for  anything  ex- 
cept by  soldiers.  That's  my  opinion." 

Madge  Summers  was  the  daughter  of  an 
army  officer,  and  therefore  prejudiced  in  favor 
of  military  tribunals.  Never  till  now,  however, 
had  she  felt  so  bitter  toward  the  judicial  ma- 
chinery of  civil  life.  But  then,  this  was  the 
first  time  anybody  she  cared  for  was  likely  to 
be  placed  at  the  mercy  of  an  ordinary  criminal 
court. 

She  rather  dreaded  her  coming  interview 
with  Jim  Craig,  much  as  she  longed  to  see  and 
talk  with  him.  At  the  same  time,  she  could 
not  hope  to  do  anything  save  with  his  co-oper- 
ation. No  matter  how  treacherous  and  vile  he 
might  think  her,  he  must  be  made  to  believe 
she  was  working  sincerely  for  his  good  now. 
She  had  been  doing  so  all  along.  That  she 
knew ;  but  he  didn't. 

Madge  had  not  seen  Jim  except  at  a  distance, 
since  her  futile  attempt  to  talk  to  him  in  Lieu- 
tenant Collins'  hotel  in  San  Francisco.  How 
contemptuously  he  had  thrown  her  off  then! 
What  would  he  say  now  ? 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror  with  a 


256  THE  DESERTERS 

mournful  smile.  Her  face,  with  its  sunken  eyes 
and  lines  of  care,  framed  by  the  great  mass  of 
dark  hair,  was  not  one  to  attract  a  fastidious 
man,  she  thought.  Madge  never  was  vain  over 
her  personal  appearance,  pretty  girl  as  she  was. 
Now  she  honestly  wondered  what  there  was 
about  her  that  ever  had  found  favor  with  Jim 
Craig. 

As  for  the  case  against  him,  that  must  either 
stand  or  melt  away,  according  as  he  admitted 
or  denied  the  truth  of  Mrs.  Marston's  state- 
ment. Should  he  maintain  that  he  did  not 
shoot  Captain  Harrison,  Madge  had  little 
doubt  full  proof  would  be  forthcoming.  She 
would  hunt  up  that  proof,  if  she  had  to  rend 
the  whole  garrison  apart.  They  should  not 
have  her  boy  while  she  could  raise  a  hand  in 
his  behalf.  And  let  it  be  remarked  that  Madge 
Summers  was  a  fighter,  especially  when  there 
was  the  life  of  an  innocent  man — and  her  own 
man,  at  that — to  fight  for. 

"It's  that  woman,  Marston,  I  have  to  look 
out  for,"  she  murmured.  "She  lied  about  her 
bedroom  and  denied  that  she  heard  the  fuss, 
when  I  know  she  did  hear  it.  Why  she  lied  I 
don't  know  yet.  But  I  shall.  Perhaps,  like 


A  FLANK  MOVEMENT        257 

many  selfish  women,  she  desired  to  keep  her- 
self out  of  an  unpleasant  case.  Perhaps  she 
wanted  to  save  some  one  else — the  real  mur- 
derer. Then,  again,  perhaps  there  was  some- 
thing to  hide  more  dangerous  to  her  than  the 
little  matter  of  a  man's  life.  I'm  not  sure  of 
my  ground  yet.  But  that's  only  because  I've 
been  used  to  dealing  with  men.  I  have  to  find 
out  into  what  depths  of  deceit  and  treachery 
a  really  bad  woman  can  fall." 

She  was  silent  for  some  moments.  But  it 
relieved  her  to  think  aloud.  She  often  did  it 
when  she  had  a  puzzling  case  and  was  alone. 
So  it  was  not  long  before  she  broke  out  again, 
in  a  low  tone: 

"She  is  a  bad  woman.  I'm  convinced  of  that. 
She  looks  like  one,  and — unless  I  am  more  mis- 
taken than  I  am  generally  when  I  get  a  thing 
into  my  head — she  has  been  acting  like  one. 
But  I'll  beat  her !  I  will,  as  sure  as  I  stand  in 
this  room  now.  No,  Mrs.  Blanche  Marston, 
you  needn't  think  you  can  ruin  Jim  Craig  while 
I  stand  by.  You  can  fight  against  a  man  who 
has  right  on  his  side — power,  influence,  justice 
— and  sometimes  you  can  defeat  him.  But 
there  is  something  that  will  win  out  against 


258  THE  DESERTERS 

you  every  time.  Something  that  is  as  strong 
and  big  as  truth.  Something  that  comes  from 
the  heart  of  the  woman  who  loves  him — who 
knows  that  he  is  innocent.  You  can't  fight 
that,  Mrs.  Marston.  You  can't  fight  that." 

The  musical  "Ta-ra-ra-ra !"  of  a  bugle,  call- 
ing out  the  squad  who  were  to  lower  the  Colors, 
warned  her  to  get  ready  for  dinner.  It  was 
sunset.  She  peeped  out  by  the  side  of  the  win- 
dow-shade to  see  the  flag  descend.  Somehow 
she  could  not  help  feeling  that  it  was  sacrilege 
to  haul  down  the  emblem  she  loved  so  dearly 
— even  for  the  prosaic  reason  that  it  is  the  mili- 
tary custom  to  do  so  every  night. 

"I  like  to  see  it  streaming  out  there,"  she 
said  softly.  "When  it  whips  out  in  the  wind  it 
seems  to  be  setting  all  evil  at  defiance.  Surely 
there  is  more  badness  abroad  at  night  than  in 
the  daylight,  when  the  sun  is  shining.  Then 
why  shouldn't  Old  Glory  stay  up  all  night? 
I  guess  even  the  colonel  would  laugh  at  me  for 
saying  that.  But  I  can't  help  my  reverence  for 
the  flag.  I  don't  know  that  I  would  if  I  could. 
.  .  .  Besides,  its  shadow  falls  right  across 
the  guard-house,  where  he  is.  I  wish  it  could 


A  FLANK   MOVEMENT        259 

remain  there  till  he  comes  out,  a  free,  vindi- 
cated man." 

Boom !    The  sunset  gun ! 

Practiced  hands  pulled  on  the  halyard.  The 
great  spread  of  red-white-and-blue  fluttered 
spasmodically  for  an  instant,  as  if  in  rebellion. 
Then  it  slid  smoothly  down  the  pole  into  the 
hands  of  the  soldiers  at  the  bottom. 

"Well,  it's  down,"  she  murmured.  "But  it 
will  go  up  again  at  daybreak.  After  all,  isn't 
that  a  good  omen  for  my  boy?  He  has  been 
pulled  down  as  the  shadows  gather.  But  he 
will  rise  again  in  the  sunshine  of  innocence  in 
the  morning." 

Miss  Madge  Summers  sighed.  Then  she 
shook  off  the  vapors  that  threatened  to  get  the 
better  of  her  clear  common  sense,  and  plunged 
her  face  into  a  bowl  of  cold  water.  It  was  the 
first  of  her  preparations  for  dining  with  Col- 
onel Parsons  and  his  family. 

When,  an  hour  afterward,  she  appeared  in 
the  dining-room,  in  a  fresh  white  gown,  with  a 
new  ribbon  at  her  throat,  her  abundant  hair 
dressed  in  the  latest  style,  and  her  face  radiant 
in  its  girlish  beauty,  the  colonel  sniffed  his  ad- 
miration, and  growled: 


260  THE  DESERTERS 

"I've  been  telling  Mrs.  Parsons  that  you 
seemed  tired  out.  By  gad !  I'm  an  old  fool !  I 
never  saw  you  look  better  than  you  do  this 
evening.  Either  I  couldn't  see  plainly  this 
morning,  or  you've  done  something  in  the  last 
few  hours  to  take  all  the  worry  out  of  your 
face.  Perhaps  you've  heard  good  news  of 
some  kind." 

"I've  heard  news,  colonel,"  she  replied,  smil- 
ing. "Whether  it  is  good  or  not,  I  can't  tell 
yet." 

"About  this  case  of  Craig's,  or " 

"Colonel!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Parsons  warn- 
ingly. 

The  colonel  saluted  his  wife  with  two  fingers 
to  his  forehead. 

"Present,  my  dear!  I  forgot.  I'm  always 
talking  about  things  at  the  wrong  time. 
What's  this,  Mary?"  to  the  maid  who  had  just 
place  a  silver  tureen  before  him.  "Tomato 
soup  ?  Good !  The  service  may  be  going  to  the 
dogs,  as  Doctor  Long  likes  to  say ;  but,  by  gad ! 
there's  nothing  wrong  with  our  commissary  de- 
partment." 

The  dinner  was  a  pleasant  occasion — it  al- 
ways was  at  the  table  of  Colonel  Parsons — 


A   FLANK   MOVEMENT        261 

and  Madge  was  rather  astonished  to  find  her- 
self in  excellent  spirits,  as  well  as  appetite. 

But,  afterward,  when,  with  Lieutenant  Col- 
lins, she  walked  across  the  parade-ground  in 
the  moonlight  toward  the  room  where  Jim 
Craig  was  a  prisoner,  the  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks  steadily.  She  was  only  a  girl,  after  all 
— a  girl  whose  lover  was  in  deadly  peril. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

GETTING  THE  RANGE 

ACCUSTOMED  as  Madge  was  to  the  im- 
personal rigidity  of  military  discipline, 
she  shuddered  as  she  entered  the  guard- 
house. The  coldness  of  it  all  appalled  her.  She 
could  not  have  explained  why.  In  the  course  of 
her  three  years  as  an  army  detective  it  often 
had  been  her  business  to  see  men  in  garrison 
prisons.  Yet,  on  this  night,  the  bare,  white- 
washed walls,  the  iron-grated  doors,  the  im- 
passive sentry,  the  hollow  echoes,  and  the  chill 
of  an  atmosphere  that  the  sun  never  warmed, 
affected  her  as  if  she  were  encountering  them 
for  the  first  time. 

"I  hope  he'll  talk  to  you,"  said  Collins,  as 
they  waited  at  the  outer  door  while  the  ser- 
geant examined  the  colonel's  order  admitting 
them. 

"I  think  he  will,"  was  her  composed  reply. 

Collins  looked  doubtful.  The  sentry  who 
262 


GETTING  THE   RANGE        263 

had  filled  the  doorway  to  bar  their  progress, 
as  the  Regulations  required,  moved  aside  and 
presented  arms. 

They  entered  the  large  main  room,  and  the 
sergeant  unlocked  the  iron  door  of  a  fair-sized 
chamber  which  was  Jim  Craig's  cell.  It  was 
furnished  with  a  cot,  table,  and  chair.  On  the 
wall,  under  the  small  barred  window,  was  a 
mirror.  This  room,  like  all  other  parts  of  the 
guard-house,  was  whitewashed.  A  lighted 
coal-oil  lamp  stood  upon  the  table. 

Madge  stopped  as  soon  as  she  was  inside. 
It  seemed  like  an  unwarranted  intrusion  to  be 
going  into  this  room  without  invitation.  She 
could  hardly  realize  it  was  a  prisoner  they  were 
to  see.  For  Jim  Craig,  reading  at  the  table  by 
the  evil-smelling  lamp,  seemed  as  tranquil  as  if 
he  had  been  lounging  in  the  comfortable  offi- 
cers' quarters  he  had  occupied  before  he  ran 
away.  His  elbows  were  on  the  table,  his  head 
resting  on  his  hands.  He  did  not  look  up  when 
they  entered. 

"He  sits  like  that  all  the  time,"  whispered 
Collins.  "Except  when  he's  marching  up  and 
down.  You  can't  wonder  at  it,  can  you  ?" 

She  held  up  a  finger  for  silence  and  walked 


264  THE  DESERTERS 

over  to  the  side  of  the  sad  figure  bent  over  the 
book. 

"Jim!" 

So  softly  she  spoke  that  he  may  not  have 
heard.  At  all  events,  he  did  not  move.  He 
seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  his  book.  Madge  saw 
that  it  was  a  volume  of  Shakespeare. 

"Jim,"  she  repeated.    "Jim!" 

Still  he  did  not  look  up.  But  he  must  have 
heard  this  time.  She  persevered,  very  gently 
and  timidly: 

"Jim !  My  dear !  I  know  you  can't  forgive 
me — yet.  But  listen,  please.  Colonel  Parsons 
has  let  me  come  here  because  I  told  him  I  be- 
lieved I  could  clear  you." 

Calmly  he  turned  over  a  leaf  of  his  book  and 
went  on  reading  at  the  top  of  the  next  page. 

"Don't  you  understand?"  she  pleaded.  "I'm 
asking  you  to  speak  to  me — for  your  own  sake 
only.  If  you'll  just  help  me,  and  work  with 

me,  I — I Oh,  Jim,  dear! — I  believe  we 

can  straighten  this  out  and  prove  that  it's  all 
been  a  mistake." 

He  laid  his  book  on  the  table,  face  down- 
ward, and  deliberately  turned  to  look  at  her. 

"It  can't  have  been  a  mistake,"  he  said — 


GETTING  THE   RANGE        265 

and  he  did  not  show  surprise,  pleasure,  disap- 
proval, or  any  other  sentiment  with  regard  to 
her  presence.  "I  killed  him  right  enough.  I 
wouldn't  have  done  it  if  I'd  been  sober,  for  she 
wasn't  worth  it.  But  I  did  kill  him,  and, 
what's  more,  he  ought  to  have  been  killed." 

Before  Jim  had  turned  his  book  over, 
Madge's  quick  eye  caught  what  he  had  been 
reading.  It  was  the  scene  in  "Othello"  in 
which  Michael  Cassio  expresses  remorse  for 
his  drunkenness.  It  was  over  that  passage  Jim 
Craig  had  been  musing — so  deeply  that  he  had 
not  noticed  them  coming  in. 

His  eyes  were  strained  and  bloodshot,  his 
voice  high  and  sharp.  That  his  nerves  were 
all  a- jangle  any  one  could  see.  It  was  evident 
that  he  hardly  knew  whafhe  was  saying.  Sus- 
pense and  hopeless  brooding  had  unhinged  him. 
How  she  would  have  liked  to  take  his  poor  fev- 
ered head  in  her  arms  and  whisper  that  he  had 
nothing  to  fear! 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  she  whispered  coax- 
ingly. 

But  he  turned  away  with  a  sullen  frown. 

"I've  said  too  much  already.  Now  will  you 
please  let  me  alone?" 


266  THE   DESERTERS 

"Just  a  moment,"  she  begged,  and  her  tone 
was  so  low  that  Lieutenant  Collins  did  not 
know  what  she  said.  "There  are  one  or  two 
things  I  don't  quite  understand.  Jim  dear,  for- 
get who  I  am.  Don't  think  of  me  as  the  Madge 
you " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  the  ges- 
ture hurt  her.  It  said  so  plainly  that  who  or 
what  she  was  had  no  interest  for  him.  But 
with  resolution  she  put  away  her  own  emotions. 
She  was  working  for  him — her  lover — now. 

"Forget  who  I  am,"  she  repeated.  "Forget 
everything  and  answer  me  just  three  questions. 
First,  when  you  shot  Captain  Harrison,  what 
did  you  do  with  the  pistol  ?" 

He  stared  at  her,  with  some  faint  animation 
in  his  face.  Then  he  answered,  with  sullen 
emphasis : 

"I  didn't  shoot  him.    I  knocked  him  down." 

He  turned  from  her  and  muttered  something 
— with  an  oath  in  it — below  his  breath.  Madge 
could  not  catch  the  words. 

"Yes?"  she  prompted.  "You  knocked  him 
rdown  ?" 

"He  fell  flat  upon  his  back  on  the  carpet,  and 
lay  quite  still.  He  was  very  white,  and  she 


GETTING  THE   RANGE        267; 

said  I  had  killed  him.    We  tried  to  revive  him, 
but  couldn't.    Then  I  went  away." 

Madge  forced  all  emotion  out  of  her  voice 
as  she  went  on  with  her  questioning: 

"You  are  quite  certain?  You — you've  said 
you  weren't — weren't  yourself,  dear.  Are  you 
certain  you  remember  distinctly?" 

"You  mean  I  was  drunk?  Well,  yes,  I  was. 
But  I  remember  everything.  I  didn't  even  have 
my  pistol  with  me.  It  was  in  my  quarters,  and 
— afterward — I  didn't  dare  go  back  for  it. 
Pity  I  didn't.  I'd  have  shot  myself  decently 
before  this." 

"Another  question,  Jim.  Did  you  see  Lieu- 
tenant Marston  that  night  ?" 

"No." 

"Not  at  all?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"It  was  at  his  house,  though — wasn't  it?" 

"He  was  on  duty  for  the  evening.  That  was 
why  I " 

The  ache  that  Madge  always  felt  at  her 
heart  now  became  a  little  more  acute.  She 
understood  why  he  had  stopped  explaining.  He 
had  gone  to  that  house  for  the  same  reason 
that  Harrison  was  there.  They  had  both  been 


268  THE  DESERTERS 

in  love  with  the  woman.  Into  what  an  abyss 
of  jealous  misery  would  her  search  for  the 
truth  lead  her.  Never  mind!  She  could  bear 
what  might  come  in  that  way.  She  must — for 
this  was  all  for  Jim!  Her  own  feelings  were 
nothing.  She  turned  her  honest  eyes  upon  him. 
He  did  not  meet  them. 

"That's  all,  Jim,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  shan't 
ask  the  third  question  now.  But — dear! 
Won't  you — won't  you  speak  to  me  before  we 
part?" 

"I  have  been  speaking  to  you.  Lieutenant 
Collins,  there,  can  testify  to  that.  I  don't  know 
why  I  did  it.  I  swore  I  never  would  exchange 
a  word  with  you  again." 

"I  don't  mean  the  way  you  have  been  speak- 
ing," she  cried  piteously.  "I  wanted  you  to  say 
something  as  if  you  remember  when  you 
thought  you — loved  me.  Dear,  look  at  me! 
I'm  eating  my  heart  out !  I'm  living  in  a  long 
torment  because  of  you.  Still,  that  is  nothing. 
I'd  die  and  suffer  for  ever  and  ever,  if  I  could 
do  you  any  good.  Don't  you  believe  me,  Jim  ?" 

"You  said  a  great  many  things  of  that  sort 
the  night  you — gave  me  up." 

There  was  so  much  scorn  in  his  voice  that 


GETTING  THE   RANGE        269 

it  was  not  even  resentful.  Madge  bent  her 
head  and  fought  till  she  had  conquered  the  hot, 
heavy  tears  that  were  struggling  up  into  her 
eyes. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  at  last.  "I'll  just  go 
ahead — alone — and  do  what  I  can  to  save  you. 
Isn't  there  anything  you  will  say  to  me  before 
I  go?" 

"What  is  there  to  say?"  he  returned  coldly. 

"Nothing.  No,  of  course.  There  is  nothing. 
Lieutenant  Collins,  we  won't  annoy  Mr.  Craig 
any  longer." 

"Very  well,  Miss  Summers.  I  am  at  your 
service." 

As  he  said  this,  the  good-natured  Collins 
stepped  up  to  Jim  Craig  and  patted  him  on  the 
shoulder.  Then  he  offered  his  hand,  which, 
after  a  slight  hesitation,  Jim  took. 

"All  right,  Collins!  I  appreciate  the  way 
you  and  the  other  boys  are  standing  by  me  in 
this,"  he  said,  in  low,  shaky  tones.  "I  don't 
think  I  deserve  it,  after  the  measly  thing  I've 
done.  So  it's  all  the  more  comforting  that  you 
give  me  your  hand,  in  spite  of  that.  You  un- 
derstand, don't  you,  old  fellow  ?" 

"Of  course,  I  do,"  returned  Lieutenant  Col- 


270  THE   DESERTERS 

lins,  ready  to  blubber.  "It's  a  rotten  shame 
that  you  should  have  got  into  a  mix-up  of  this 
kind.  But  I'm  in  hopes  that  you'll  pull  out  of 
it  somehow.  Miss  Summers  seems  to  think 
you  will,  and  we  all  have  a  lot  of  faith  in  her." 

He  made  no  reply  to  this.  But  he  bowed 
gravely  as  the  lieutenant  and  Madge  moved  to 
the  door.  When  they  were  outside,  in  the 
large  room,  Madge  turned  to  look  at  him,  in 
the  vague  hope  that  she  might  catch  his  eye. 
He  was  again  buried  in  his  Shakespeare. 

"I'm  sorry  there  was  no  favorable  result 
from  your  visit,  Miss  Summers,"  said  Collins, 
as  they  crossed  the  parade-ground  in  the  moon- 
light. 

"Ah,  but  there  is  a  favorable  result,  lieuten- 
ant. I  have  Mr.  Craig's  testimony  that  he 
knocked  Captain  Harrison  down  with  a  blow 
of  his  fist,  but  that  he  did  not  shoot  him.  Yet 
you  and  all  the  others  agree  that  the  man  was 
shot." 

"Yes,  through  the  heart." 

"But,  Jim — Mr.  Craig — says  he  did  not  even 
have  his  pistol  with  him  that  night.  How  do 
you  reconcile  that  with  the  story  that  he  shot 
Harrison?" 


GETTING   THE   RANGE         271 

The  good  lieutenant  did  not  try  to  explain. 
The  case  was  getting  beyond  his  mental  pow- 
ers. So  he  smiled  feebly  in  silence.  After  a 
few  moments  she  said,  rather  timidly: 

"Could  you  take  me  over  to  Mr.  Craig's  old 
quarters — the  rooms  he  occupied  at  that  time? 
Or  is  there  somebody  there?  I  suppose  they 
are  occupied,  aren't  they?" 

"Well — er — yes,  Miss  Summers.  They  are, 
in  a  way.  In  point  of  fact,  I'm  living  in  them 
now.  You  see,  Jim  Craig  and  I  had  three 
rooms.  We  used  the  same  sitting-room  with 
our  bedrooms  on  opposite  sides.  Since  he  went 
away  no  one  has  taken  his  bedroom." 

She  was  interested  in  all  this,  as  her  manner 
showed. 

"You  were  there  that  night,  then  ?  Did  you 
hear  anything  of  the  trouble  ?  Did  you  see  him 
when  he  came  to  his  quarters — afterward?" 

"No.  I  was  in  my  room,  with  my  door 
closed.  If  he  went  to  his  bedroom,  I  should 
not  be  likely  to  hear  him  unless  he  made  an 
unusual  noise." 

"No,  I  suppose  you  wouldn't,"  she  agreed 
thoughtfully.  "Would  it  be  possible  for  me  to 
see  his  empty  room  and  the  sitting-room?" 


272  THE   DESERTERS 

It  was  possible,  and  in  about  three  minutes 
Madge  was  in  the  small  room  in  which  Jim 
Craig  had  slept.  She  took  in  all  its  furnish- 
ings at  a  glance.  She  looked  at  the  plain  camp 
bed,  at  the  locker  where  he  had  kept  his  small- 
arms  and  ammunition,  and  into  the  clothes- 
closet,  with  its  row  of  hooks  and  its  pungent 
smell  of  leather  from  boots  and  leggins. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  kept  his  pistol,  lieu- 
tenant?" 

She  put  the  question  casually,  as  she  stepped 
back  from  the  clothes-closet. 

"Why — er — I  suppose  in  that  locker.  That's 
where  we  generally  have  them — when  we  take 
the  trouble  to  put  away  our  things  at  all." 

"Lieutenant  Craig  was  neat  and  orderly  in 
his  ways,  was  he  not  ?  I  think  I've  heard  that." 

"Yes — much  better  than  most  of  the  fellows. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  I  never  saw  his  pistol, 
or  anything  else  of  his  belonging  to  the  Serv- 
ice, lying  around  loose." 

"That's  what  I  wanted  particularly  to 
know." 

"Ah!  Oh!  Did  you?  I  tell  you  what  it 
is,  Miss  Summers.  You  remind  me  of  Sher- 
lock Holmes.  You  know — that  fellow  who 


GETTING  THE   RANGE        273 

asked  questions  that  seemed  to  have  no  bearing 
on  a  case,  but  which  always  led  direct  to  the 
mystery.  For  instance " 

"Yes,  lieutenant,  I've  heard  of  Sherlock 
Holmes,"  she  interrupted  good-humoredly. 
"But  I  am  not  conceited  enough  to  think  I  have 
his  gifts.  Can  you  open  that  locker  for  me  ?" 

"I  dare  say  I  can,  Miss  Summers.  The  key 
is  in  the  door.  But  the  locker  is  empty." 

He  took  hold  of  the  key  as  he  spoke  and  tried 
to  turn  it.  But  the  lock  would  not  yield. 

"This  lock  always  was  awkward,"  he  ex- 
plained, as  he  wriggled  the  key.  "I  never  knew 
it  to  open  the  first  time." 

Madge  made  no  comment.  Just  then  the  key 
turned  and  the  door  opened,  making  a  loud 
creaking  as  it  did  so.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  locker  then,  as  the  lieutenant  had  said.  She 
closed  the  door  herself  and  locked  it.  Then  she 
said: 

"I  don't  see  how  anybody  could  open  this 
door  without  your  hearing  it,  unless  you  were 
sound  asleep." 

"No,  that's  true,"  assented  the  lieutenant 
eagerly.  "And  I  remember  now  that " 

She  held  up  her  hand  to  stop  him. 


274  THE   DESERTERS 

"Lieutenant  Collins,  would  you  mind  keeping 
that  to  yourself  until  to-morrow?" 

"Why,  of  course.    I " 

"Because  I  intend  to  ask  questions  of  several 
people  in  Colonel  Parsons'  office  then.  It  may 
simplify  matters  for  the  court-martial." 

Lieutenant  Collins  looked  at  her  in  admira- 
tion, tinged  with  doubt.  But  the  doubt  grad- 
ually faded  away.  He  had  come  to  believe  that 
this  girl,  with  her  quiet  manners  and  direct 
methods,  could  accomplish  anything. 

"Good  night,  lieutenant.  And  thank  you 
very  much  for  all  the  trouble  you  have  taken." 

She  put  out  her  small,  gloved  hand.  As  he 
took  it  he  stammered  that  it  had  been  no  trou- 
ble— that  he  had  enjoyed  it.  Anyhow,  he'd  do 
anything  for  Craig,  poor  chap! 

The  squeeze  she  gave  his  fingers  would  have 
proved  to  the  honest  Collins  that  he  had  said 
the  right  thing  then,  if  he  never  had  before. 
He  looked  after  her  as  she  entered  Colonel 
Parsons'  house  and  murmured,  with  a  senti- 
mental upturning  of  his  eyes : 

"I'd  be  almost  willing  to  change  places  with 
Craig  if  it  would  make  her  feel  toward  me  as 
she  does  to  him." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SHARPSHOOTING 

WHEN  Madge  appeared  in  Colonel  Par- 
sons' drawing-room,  after  leaving 
Lieutenant  Collins,  she  found  her- 
self in  an  atmosphere  of  gaiety  which  was 
good  for  her,  whether  she  realized  it  or  not. 
They  were  a  musical  family.  One  of  the  col- 
onel's daughters  was  at  the  piano,  while  the 
other  helped  her  sister  to  sing.  The  father 
took  part  now  and  then,  when  the  melody  ap- 
pealed to  him.  It  happened  that  he  was  roar- 
ing out  one  of  the  old  camp  songs  of  the  Six- 
ties just  as  Madge  entered. 

He  stopped  to  greet  her.  But  she  made  him 
go  on,  and  soon  she  was  singing,  too,  as  heart- 
ily as  any  of  them.  Not  that  she  had  forgot- 
ten Jim  for  a  moment.  Only,  it  was  one  of 
her  principles  not  to  obtrude  her  troubles  or 
perplexities  when  it  could  be  avoided. 

But  just  before  she  left  the  room,  to  go  to 
275 


276  THE   DESERTERS 

bed,  she  got  the  colonel  in  a  corner,  and  whis- 
pered : 

"Colonel,  I  saw  Mr.  Craig  to-night." 

"Yes,  of  course  you  did.  You  went  to  the 
guard-house  for  that  purpose.  Did  you  get 
any  satisfaction?" 

"Not  much." 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  would.  But  I'm  glad 
you  saw  him,  anyhow.  Now  you  know  how 
useless  it  is  trying  to  prove  that  black  is  white." 

"Yes,  colonel.  It  was  very  hard  to  make 
him  talk.  That  is — to  talk  to  me." 

She  said  this  so  sadly  that  the  colonel's  voice 
was  more  sympathetic  than  before,  as  he  said : 

"My  dear  Miss  Summers,  I'm  sorry  for  your 
disappointment.  But,  as  I  told  you,  to  any  one 
knowing  the  facts  there  can't  be  much  doubt 
as  to  who  killed  Captain  Harrison." 

"No,  colonel.  To  any  one  knowing  the  facts 
there  certainly  cannot  be  much  doubt." 

The  odd  tone  in  which  she  uttered  this  com- 
monplace sentence  convinced  Colonel  Parsons 
that  it  concealed  a  deeper  meaning  than  ap- 
peared on  the  surface,  and  he  gave  her  a  keen 
look. 


SHARPSHOOTING  277 

"You're  convinced,  then?" 

"Entirely,"  she  returned,  in  the  same  enig- 
matical way.  "I  know  who  the  murderer  is, 
and  I  also  know  who  the  murderer  is  not.  The 
main  difficulty  is  going  to  be  in  keeping  the 
innocent  man  from  proving  himself  guilty." 

"This  sounds  like  a  riddle — a  regular  Sphinx 
riddle,"  growled  the  colonel. 

"Does  it  ?  Well,  you  know  the  riddle  of  the 
Sphinx  was  solved  at  last.  Who  knows  what 
may  happen  to  this  one?" 

She  paused  a  moment  to  exchange  a  smiling 
"Good  night"  with  the  colonel's  two  daughters. 
Then,  in  a  swift,  business-like  way,  she  went 
on  speaking  to  the  colonel : 

"To-morrow  morning  I  want  you  to  have  in 
your  room,  facing  the  parade-ground,  the  offi- 
cers who  were  there  the  day  I  first  entered  it. 
Oh!  Yes.  And  Corporal  Thwayte,  who  was 
acting  as  orderly  at  that  time.  Please  have 
him  there,  as  well." 

"Really,  my  dear  girl!  I  hardly  think  I 
can " 

She  broke  in  sharply : 

"Colonel  Parsons,  I'm  not  asking  a  favor 


278  THE   DESERTERS 

now.  It  is  something  that  must  be  done.  It  is 
in  your  power  to  give  an  innocent  man  a  chance 
for  his  life.  And  you're  going  to  do  it." 

The  colonel  stared  blankly  for  a  moment. 
But  the  look  she  shot  back  told  him  she  was 
going  to  have  her  way.  With  a  shrug,  he 
growled : 

"Gad!  No  wonder  you  can  make  the  boys 
do  what  you  want.  I've  never  been  so  ordered 
about  in  all  my  life." 

"Then  you'll  do  it?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so." 

"At  what  time?" 

"Eleven  o'clock — right  after  morning  drill. 
Now  get  to  bed,  before  you  make  me  promise 
something  else." 

She  bade  him  a  grateful  "Good  night!"  and 
went  to  her  room.  Once  there,  she  sat  by  the 
open  window  in  the  darkness — for  the  moon 
had  gone  down — and  looked  across  the  parade- 
ground  at  the  guard-house,  which  stood  out, 
gaunt  and  forbidding,  against  the  starlit  sky. 

Always  afterward  the  scent  of  dewy  grass 
brought  back  to  her  that  June  night,  with  the 
green  courtyard,  empty  save  for  the  sentries, 
and  beyond,  in  the  shadow  of  the  elms,  the 


SHARPSHOOTING  279 

prison  where  Jim  Craig,  believing  in  nothing 
good — least  of  all,  woman's  sincerity — was 
passing  the  hours,  determined  to  meet  his  fate 
like  a  soldier. 

It  was  natural  for  Madge,  sitting  in 
quietude,  to  review  the  case  as  she  had  gath- 
ered it  so  far.  Considering  dispassionately  the 
colonel's  position,  she  could  not  but  admit  that 
there  was  a  fair  foundation  for  the  assumption 
of  Jim  Craig's  guilt.  First  and  foremost  came 
the  word  of  Lieutenant  Marston — the  word  of 
a  man  of  unimpeachable  integrity  and  reputa- 
tion. He  was  ready  to  swear  that  he  had  come 
into  his  house  late  at  night  and  found  the  dead 
body  of  Captain  Harrison  on  the  floor  of  his 
sitting-room.  Over  him  stood  Lieutenant 
Craig,  with  a  revolver  in  his  hand.  He  had 
struggled  with  Craig,  he  said,  and  gained  pos- 
session of  the  revolver.  Then  Craig  had  es- 
caped. 

That  was  Marston's  story,  as  she  had  heard 
it  several  times.  The  fact  that  it  did  not  agree 
with  Jim's  in  any  of  the  details  proved  just  one 
thing — either  his  accusers  were  lying,  or  he 
was.  The  murder  had  been  witnessed  by  two 
persons — Lieutenant  and  Mrs.  Marston,  but  a 


280  THE  DESERTERS 

dozen  or  more  had  seen  the  dead  man  on  the 
floor,  with  Jim  Craig's  revolver  by  his  side. 

Harrison's  and  Craig's  presence  in  Mars- 
ton's  house  at  a  late  hour  struck  no  one  as  par- 
ticularly remarkable.  The  Marstons  belonged 
to  a  free-and-easy  crowd,  and  Mrs.  Marston 
was  known  to  stand  on  little  ceremony  as  to 
her  hours  for  receiving.  As  for  Jim  Craig, 
he  had  announced  briefly,  in  his  one  interview 
with  Colonel  Parsons,  that  he  intended  to  plead 
guilty,  and  wished  for  no  defense. 

"If  I  were  not  so  deeply  interested,"  mur- 
mured Madge,  "I  should  enjoy  getting  to  the 
heart  of  this  tangle.  Nothing  else  puts  me 
on  edge  like  rinding  myself  against  a  bunch 
of  falsehoods.  And  this  whole  case  is  based 
on  lies,  I  believe.  If  I  didn't  think  that,  I 
shouldn't  feel  so  sure  of  getting  Jim  out  of  it. 
As  it  is " 

She  continued  her  reflections  inaudibly  as 
she  prepared  for  bed  without  making  a  light. 
When  she  fell  asleep  there  was  a  smile  on  her 
face — the  smile  of  one  who  is  ready  for  a  fair 
and  square  battle  on  the  morrow. 

A  similar  smile  curled  her  lip  in  the  morn- 


SHARPSHOOTING  281 

ing,  when  in  the  same  neat  suit  and  jaunty  hat 
she  had  worn  before  going  to  San  Francisco, 
she  sat  by  the  colonel's  desk.  Talking  lightly 
to  him  and  Doctor  Long,  .as  she  waited  for 
the  officers  to  come,  she  was  so  innocent,  and 
sweet,  and  irresponsible,  that  she  might  have 
been  a  matinee  girl,  waiting  to  start  for  the 
theater.  Certainly  nothing  in  her  manner  sug- 
gested that  the  life  of  a  man  was  in  her  hands 
— a  life  she  valued  above  that  of  any  other  in 
the  world. 

"Colonel,  dear,"  she  whispered,  as  the  meas- 
ured tramp  of  feet  sounded  outside.  "Don't  be 
surprised  at  anything  I  may  say  or  do 
this  morning.  This  is  a  queer,  crooked  busi- 
ness  " 

"Oh,  it  is,  eh?"  interrupted  the  colonel,  as 
he  pointed  a  finger  at  her  in  mock  anger.  "I'm 
glad  you  recognize  that." 

"Yes,  and,  because  it  is,  I  must  take  a  queer, 
crooked  way  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  That's 
all." 

The  colonel  only  grunted.  He  felt,  somehow, 
that  he  was  compromising  his  dignity  by  per- 
mitting these  irregular  proceedings  at  all.  And 


282  THE  DESERTERS 

just  because  a  girl  wanted  them!  But,  for 
the  life  of  him,  he  didn't  know  how  to  get  out 
of  it. 

The  door  flew  open,  and  the  orderly  stood 
at  attention,  as  five  officers,  including  Lieu- 
tenant Collins  and  Lieutenant  Marston,  filed 
in.  After  them  came  a  man  in  the  uniform  of 
a  private,  with  a  stripe  on  his  arm.  This  was 
Corporal  Thwayte,  who  had  been  orderly  in 
the  officers'  quarters  on  the  night  of  the  homi- 
cide. 

The  men  drew  themselves  up  stiffly  along  the 
wall.  There  were  not  enough  chairs  in  the 
room  to  have  accommodated  everyone.  So 
Colonel  Parsons  saved  himself  embarrassment 
by  allowing  them  all  to  stand.  Then  he  ad- 
dressed them,  with  a  mixture  of  official  cold- 
ness and  geniality.  It  was  always  his  tone 
when  he  spoke  to  any  of  his  officers  formally 
on  subjects  connected  with  the  Service. 

"Gentlemen,  you  are  summoned  here  in 
rather  an  unusual  way.  It  is  at  the  request  of 
Miss  Summers.  She  has  asked  leave  to  con- 
duct an  informal  inquiry  on  a  matter  in  which 
we  are  all  deeply  interested,  and  which  con- 
cerns very  nearly  the  honor  of  this  post." 


SHARPSHOOTING  283 

"Bully  for  the  old  man !" 

Lieutenant  Collins  thought  this,  but  he  did 
not  say  it  aloud. 

"I  shall  consider  it  a  favor,"  continued  the 
colonel,  "if  such  of  you  as  she  sees  fit  to  ques- 
tion give  her  all  possible  aid.  I  have  no  doubt 
you  will  agree  with  me  that  the  excellent  work 
Miss  Summers  has  done  in  connection  with  this 
case  entitles  her  to  pursue  her  inquiries  in  her 
own  way,  provided  the  Regulations  are  not  vio- 
lated." 

"Regulations  be  hanged!"  thought  Collins. 
"They've  all  gone  to  smash,  and  the  colonel 
knows  it  as  well  as  we  do.  I'm  glad  of  it,  too, 
if  it  helps  Jim  Craig  to  win  out." 

"Now,  then,  Miss  Summers,"  said  the  col- 
onel, "we  are  at  your  service." 

"Thank  you,  colonel.  But  we  have  not 
brought  in  the  most  important  witness." 

"Whom  do  you  mean  ?" 

"The  man  who  is  charged  with  the  murder 
— James  Craig." 

"Oh,  you  want  him,  do  you?  You  didn't 
say  so." 

"No,  I  didn't  say  so,  because  I  didn't  think 
of  it.  Besides,  I  took  it  for  granted.  James 


284  THE   DESERTERS 

Craig  is  entitled  to  face  his  accusers.  In  fact, 
I  could  not  go  on  without  him." 

"Couldn't " 

"Well,  colonel  dear,  I  wouldn't.  It  comes  to 
the  same  thing." 

Colonel  Parsons'  visage  screwed  up  into  an 
expression  such  as  it  might  have  worn  if  he 
had  seen  some  one  trying  to  chop  wood  with 
his  dress  sword  without  being  able  to  get  at 
him.  He  touched  the  bell  on  his  table,  and 
when  his  orderly  appeared,  said  gruffly : 

"Bring  James  Craig  from  the  guard-house, 
under  double  guard." 

While  the  orderly  was  away  Madge  sur- 
veyed the  faces  of  each  of  the  men  present. 
She  gave  little  time  to  any  of  them  except 
Marston.  Him  she  looked  up  and  down  keenly. 
Here  was  the  man  whose  honor  had  been 
smirched,  and  which  had  not  been  cleansed  even 
by  the  death  of  one  of  those  who  had  befouled 
it.  What  did  he  think  of  all  this?  Would  he 
not  rather  that  the  two  men  playing  pitch-and- 
toss  with  the  sanctity  of  his  home  had  killed 
each  other,  instead  of  one  having  been  allowed 
to  survive?  Well,  at  all  events,  if  Jim  Craig 
should  be  proved  guilty,  he  would  have  his  full 


SHARPSHOOTING  285 

revenge.  Perhaps  it  would  please  him  to  know 
that  the  most  ignominious  death  a  man  could 
suffer  would  be  the  portion  of  one  of  those  who 
had  injured  him,  anyhow.  Something  in  his 
cynical  countenance  might  express  this.  Or — 
it  might  express  something  else. 

For  nearly  ten  minutes  there  was  silence, 
save  for  the  fluttering  of  a  butterfly  against 
the  wire  screen  of  the  window,  as  it  tried  fool- 
ishly to  get  in  from  the  grass-scented  outside. 
The  younger  officers  stood  perfectly  still,  with 
the  untiring  patience  drilled  into  them  at  the 
Military  Academy  long  before.  As  for  Cor- 
poral Thwayte,  he  might  have  been  a  graven 
image  in  khaki. 

The  colonel  endeavored  to  be  patient,  too. 
But,  as  commanding  officer,  he  was  privileged 
to  jerk  about  uneasily  in  his  chair  and  drum 
with  his  fingers  upon  his  desk,  if  it  relieved 
him.  So  he  did  it.  Doctor  Long,  beside  him, 
watched  all  the  proceedings  keenly. 

The  only  person  in  the  room  who  seemed 
entirely  at  ease  was  Madge.  She  sat  quite  still, 
and  her  gloved  hands,  lying  easily  in  her  lap, 
gave  no  suggestion  of  desiring  to  drum  upon 
anything.  Having  looked  over  the  witnesses 


286  THE   DESERTERS 

present,  she  was  content  to  wait  calmly  for  the 
next  act  of  the  drama. 

It  came  at  last,  with  the  jingle  of  spurred 
heels  on  the  brick  pathway  around  the  lawn. 
Directly  afterward  the  orderly  announced  that 
the  prisoner  was  there.  A  nod  from  the  col- 
onel, and  Jim  Craig  came  into  the  room  be- 
tween two  privates.  His  gaze  swept  the  line  of 
men  who  used  to  be  his  brother-officers.  Then 
he  faced  the  colonel  and  saluted.  Colonel  Par- 
sons acknowledged  the  salute  and  signed  to  the 
two  guards,  as  well  as  the  orderly,  to  with- 
draw. 

Madge  fixed  her  eyes  on  Jim  Craig's  face  as 
soon  as  he  entered.  But  not  once  did  he  look 
directly  at  her.  He  merely  included  her  in  the 
comprehensive  glance  with  which  he  took  in  the 
whole  room.  Then  he  waited  for  what  was  to 
follow.  Boredom,  more  than  any  other  emo- 
tion, was  expressed  in  his  face. 

Colonel  Parsons  looked  inquiringly  at 
Madge. 

"Yes.  All  right,  colonel,"  she  said,  in  reply 
to  his  tacit  query.  "I  will  ask  a  few  questions 
of  Corporal  Thwayte  first,  if  you  will  permit 


me." 


SHARPSHOOTING  287 

"Corporal  Thwayte,  stand  forward,"  or- 
dered the  colonel. 

The  corporal  marched  three  steps  toward 
her,  brought  his  heels  together,  and  saluted 
her,  the  colonel,  and  the  doctor.  All  three  ac- 
knowledged it  in  military  fashion.  Then,  with- 
out further  preliminary,  Madge  fired  her  first 
gun.  It  was  a  surprise: 

"Corporal  Thwayte,  do  you  remember  that 
Lieutenant  Marston  entered  Lieutenant  Craig's 
quarters  on  the  night  of  the  I5th  of  May?" 

Lieutenant  Marston,  standing  in  line  with 
the  others,  did  not  move,  but  his  eyes  opened 
wider  and  he  listened  eagerly  for  the  corporal's 
answer.  It  came,  in  two  words : 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Will  you  tell  about  it,  please?" 

"Lieutenant  Marston  came  in  with  two  pri- 
vates— Rand  and  Safford  they  were,  ma'am — 
and  said  he  wanted  to  know  if  Lieutenant 
Craig  was  in  quarters,  for  he  must  arrest 
him." 

"And  you  told  him  Lieutenant  Craig  had  not 
been  back  to  quarters?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"What  did  Lieutenant  Marston  do  then?" 


288  THE   DESERTERS 

"He  looked  about  a  bit,  among  Lieutenant 
Craig's  things.  Then  he  came  out  and  said, 
'Well,  boys,  I'm  afraid  we  must  give  the 
alarm/  " 

"That  was  all?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"You  did  not  see  anybody  else  at  Lieutenant 
Craig's  quarters?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"What  time  was  this?" 

"Near  midnight,  ma'am." 

"Thank  you.  One  moment.  How  was  Lieu- 
tenant Marston  dressed?" 

"Why,  ma'am,  I  hardly  remember " 

"It  was  a  stormy  night,  wasn't  it  ?  He  wore 
a  heavy  overcoat,  didn't  he?" 

This  was  what  lawyers  called  a  "leading 
question"  and  there  might  have  been  a  fierce 
"I  object!"  if  there  had  been  any  opposing 
counsel.  As  there  wasn't,  Corporal  Thwayte 
answered : 

"Yes,  yes.  Seems  to  me  he  did.  Yes,  I'm 
sure  of  it.  He  had  a  big  storm  coat,  with  the 
collar  turned  up.  He  dripped  rain  all  over 
when  he  came  in." 

"The  coat  had  pockets,  I  suppose  ?" 


SHARPSHOOTING  289 

"Pockets,  ma'am?" 

"Pockets,  I  mean,  that  would  hold  things  of 
a  fair  size.  Books  or  small  packages,  or — re- 
volvers." 

"I  suppose  so,  ma'am." 

"That's  all,  corporal.    Thanks." 

With  a  smile  she  waved  Corporal  Thwayte 
away,  and  he  stood  back  against  the  wall,  to 
await  further  orders. 

"Colonel  Parsons,"  she  said,  "I  should  like 
to  speak  to  Mr.  Craig." 

"Mr.  Craig!"  called  out  the  colonel. 

Madge's  breath  came  violently  for  a  few 
seconds.  She  had  been  trying  to  prepare  her- 
self for  this  ordeal,  but  it  seemed  to  be  harder 
than  she  had  expected.  Jim  Craig  was  almost 
nonchalant  as  he  stood  there.  The  inquisitor 
was  the  disturbed  one.  She  cooled  down  after 
the  first  question,  however.  There  was  too 
much  at  stake — for  the  man  she  loved — to  per- 
mit her  to  lose  self-control  altogether.  She 
addressed  the  prisoner,  but  she  hardly  looked 
at  him  now.  Toward  only  one  person  was  her 
steady  gaze  directed — Lieutenant  George 
Marston. 

"Mr.  Craig,"  .she  began,  "Colonel  Parsons 


"290  THE  DESERTERS 

has  allowed  me  to  ask  you  a  few  questions.  I 
hope  you  will  answer  them." 

"I  will  to  the  best  of  my  ability." 

He  was  as  imperturbable  and  steady  as  ever 
he  had  been  when,  as  her  accepted  lover,  he 
had  walked  by  her  side  in  the  park  in  San 
Francisco.  A  handsome,  striking  figure  he 
made  before  them  all.  Madge  saw,  with  a 
thrill  of  pride,  that  not  one  of  the  other  offi- 
cers was  his  equal  in  manly  grace.  It  was  as 
if  his  troubles  had  endowed  him  with  a  dignity 
of  their  own. 

The  interest  was  all  on  her  side,  how- 
ever. He  seemed  to  be  entirely  indifferent  to 
her,  and  replied  to  her  queries  with  perfect 
coolness,  as  if  she  were  a  stranger.  Madge  had 
always  known  Jim  Craig  had  nerve. 

Having  laid  out  beforehand  the  line  of  her 
questioning,  she  went  straight  to  the  point: 

"Why  did  you  choose  the  evening  of  May 
1 5th  for  your  call  on  the  Marstons?" 

He  frowned  a  little.  It  could  be  seen  that 
he  did  it  involuntarily,  because  the  query 
brought  up  something  he  would  rather  forget. 
But  his  voice  was  quite  smooth  and  natural  as 
he  replied : 


SHARPSHOOTING  291 

"I  did  not  'choose'  it." 

"Ah!"  she  went  on.  "You  did  not  know 
that  Lieutenant  Marston  was  on  duty,  and 
could  not  possibly  be  at  home  until  very  late  ?" 

"I  did  not  think  about  it,"  and  there  was 
anger  in  his  tone  now.  "I  was  calling  on  Mrs. 
Marston " 

She  interrupted  him  by  switching  off  sud- 
denly in  another  question: 

"Mr.  Craig,  when  you  left  your  quarters  that 
night,  did  you  carry  your  revolver  ?" 

"No." 

"With  what,  then,  did  you  shoot  Captain 
Harrison?" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  weariness  and  impa- 
tience. 

"I  did  not  shoot  him.    I've  said  that  before." 

"I  know,"  she  nodded.  "You  say  that  you 
did  not  shoot  him.  But — there's  the  bullet- 
wound.  How  do  you  explain  that  ?" 

"I  don't  explain  it.  I  only  know  I  didn't 
shoot  him.  There  was  no  bullet-wound  when 
I  left  him." 

There  was  a  pause.  Madge  turned  in  her 
chair  to  look  thoughtfully  through  the  window. 
It  was  a  habit  of  hers  when  she  was  perplexed 


292  THE  DESERTERS 

or  meditating  a  decisive  stroke.  When  she  did 
break  the  silence  it  was  to  say,  with  a  deceptive 
resignation : 

"Ah !  It  does  seem  difficult  to  explain.  As 
difficult  as  why  Lieutenant  Marston  refused 
to  recognize  you  in  Reilly's  saloon  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. As  difficult  as  why  he  offered  to  help 
you  to  escape  from  the  guard-house  the  night 
before  last." 

"My  dear  Miss  Summers !"  blurted  out  Col- 
onel Parsons. 

Jim  Craig  turned  a  furious  scarlet.  He 
glowered  at  her  as  if  he  could  kill  her.  How 
had  she  found  out  that  Marston  had  visited 
him  in  his  cell? 

"It  was  very  unsportsmanlike  of  me  to  speak 
of  that,  wasn't  it?"  continued  Madge.  "But 
I  know  what  I  am  doing.  I  also  know  what  I 
have  to  do.  And  one  thing  that  I  have  not  to 
do,  is  to  consider  anything  outside  of  this  case. 
I'm  sorry  if  Lieutenant  Marston  is  ashamed  of 
some  things  he  may  have  done  or  tried  to  do. 
But  that  does  not  concern  me."  She  paused  an 
instant.  Then,  quite  unexpectedly:  "Was 
Mrs.  Marston  present  that  night — the  night  of 
the  murder?" 


SHARPSHOOTING  293 

"I  refuse  to  answer  any  more  questions." 

As  he  shouted  this  defiance  Jim  Craig 
clenched  his  fists,  looking  about  him  as  if  seek- 
ing some  way  of  escape. 

Quite  calmly,  Madge  ignored  these  demon- 
strations, continuing,  in  a  judicial  tone : 

"Mrs.  Marston  says  she  was  not  present.  It 
is  on  record  that  her  husband  says  she  was  not. 
But  still,  it  is  odd.  Do  you  suppose  all  that 
noise  could  have  happened  so  close  to  her  with- 
out her  having  been  tempted  to  come  in?" 

Jim  Craig  had  folded  his  arms  and  was  re- 
garding her  with  stolid  obstinacy.  He  did 
not  answer.  She  waited  a  moment  and  asked : 

"You  know  the  position  of  her  bedroom,  Mr. 
Craig  ?  It  is  just  off  the  parlor." 

"Well?"  he  growled. 

Just  a  hint  of  a  smile  crossed  her  face.  She 
had  got  at  least  one  word  out  of  him  after  he 
had  said  he  would  not  answer  any  more  ques- 
tions. 

"You  know  that,  just  the  other  side  of  the 
wall,  she  must  have  heard  whatever  was  going 
on  in  that  room?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

Madge  shifted  her  ground  with  an  abrupt- 


294  THE  DESERTERS 

ness  that  startled  everybody  and  brought  forth 
a  surprised  "By  Jove!"  from  Lieutenant  Col- 
lins. In  solemn  tones,  she  demanded : 

"Why  did  you  attack  Captain  Harrison?" 

"It  was  a  private  quarrel,"  he  replied.  "It 
can  have  no  bearing  on  the  case." 

But  she  would  not  be  put  off. 

"What  did  you  quarrel  about?" 

Jim  Craig  brought  his  teeth  together  with  a 
snap. 

"Come,  Mr.  Craig,"  she  coaxed,  in  a  kindly, 
impersonal  way.  "I  have  been  permitted  this 
inquiry  for  a  definite  object.  I  hope  you  will 
not  try  to  hamper  me  in  accomplishing  that  ob- 
ject. It  will  not  improve  your  case,  I  assure 
you." 

Her  tone  was  considerate,  yet  firm  and  full 
of  warning.  She  seemed  to  be  reminding  him 
that  he  was  a  criminal,  and  she  a  detective. 
Jim  Craig  could  hardly  believe  that  the  cool, 
almost  apathetic,  cross-examiner,  who  was 
grilling  him  so  relentlessly,  was  the  Madge 
who  had  walked  by  his  side,  with  her  face 
against  his  shoulder,  under  the  trees  in  San 
Francisco,  not  much  more  than  a  week  be- 
fore. 


SHARPSHOOTING  295 

She  turned,  with  a  calm  smile,  to  the  col- 
onel. 

"Philosophers  say  that  knowledge  is  one  of 
man's — and  woman's — chief  weapons,"  she  re- 
marked, with  a  doubtful  shake  of  the  head. 
"Sometimes  I  doubt  it." 

"Oh,  gee!"  ejaculated  Lieutenant  Collins, 
sotto  voce.  "Philosophers!  What's  she  get- 
ting at?" 

"Indeed,"  went  on  Madge,  "there  often  are 
times  when  knowledge  avails  us  very  little. 
For  instance,  in  this  case  I  know  certain  things 
to  be  true.  Yet  I  may  never  be  able  to  prove 
them." 

She  swung  around  to  face  the  prisoner. 

"Mr.  Craig!  Do  you  remember  everything 
that  happened  that  night  ? 

Jim  Craig  seemed  to  think  she  was  laying  a 
trap  of  some  kind  for  him,  for  he  repeated  her 
words : 

"Do  I  remember?" 

"Yes.  I  am  told  that  you  had  been  drink- 
ing. Have  you  an  absolutely  clear  impression 
of  everything  you  saw  on  the  night  on  which 
you — on  which  Captain  Harrison  was  killed?" 

"Why,  yes,  I " 


296  THE  DESERTERS 

He  hesitated.  She  pressed  him — without 
mercy,  as  it  seemed: 

"You  remember  distinctly  why  you  quar- 
reled?" 

"Why,  of  course.    I — struck  him,  and " 

He  stopped  in  confusion.  Any  one  could  tell 
he  was  holding  something  back. 

"Surely!  We  all  know  that?  But  why? 
Why  did  you  strike  him?  And  why,  after 
knocking  him  down,  did  you  shoot  him  ?" 

"I  never  did!"  he  shouted,  and  he  was  in  a 
fury  now.  "I  never  shot  him.  I  did  knock  him 
down." 

"Well,  why?" 

She  waited — half  a  minute — three-quarters 
— a  minute.  Then,  gulping  hard,  he  answered 
lamely : 

"We — we — quarreled." 

With  a  patient  smile,  and  a  glance  at  Col- 
onel Parsons  which  told  him  she  hoped  to  get 
at  the  truth  eventually,  she  asked : 

"Oh,  well— yes,  Mr.  Craig.  We  know  that. 
But — for  the  tenth  time — what  was  it  you 
quarreled  about?" 

Evidently  he  tried  to  answer,  for  his  white 
lips  moved.  But  he  did  not  speak.  He  could 


SHARPSHOOTING  297 

not  find  the  explanation  he  wanted — one  that 
would  enable  him  to  tell  the  truth  without  com- 
promising the  woman  who  had  been  the  cause 
of  it  all. 

Madge  knew  what  was  passing  in  his  tor- 
tured mind  as  well  as  if  he  had  spoken.  And 
in  that  moment,  the  thought  of  the  shallow, 
blondined  creature  Jim  was  trying  to  shield — 
while  he  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  gallows — 
maddened  her.  Madge  knew  why  he  did  it. 
She  had  often  heard  the  hackneyed  phrase — 
one  of  the  most  insolent  and  vicious  that  ever 
passed  the  lips  of  a  libertine — "he  perjured 
himself  like  a  gentleman."  Jim  Craig  had 
heard  it,  too,  of  course,  and  its  spurious  heroics 
naturally  appealed  to  him.  Doubtless  he  felt 
that  he  was  acting  only  the  part  of  an  honor- 
able man  in  lying  for  Mrs.  Marston's  sake. 

Well,  Madge  did  not  agree  with  him.  What 
was  the  value  of  that  woman's  battered  reputa- 
tion compared  with  Jim  Craig's  life?  The 
words  she  had  been  holding  back  thundered 
forth  like  a  blast  of  shrapnel : 

"You  don't  know  what  it  was  that  made  you 
strike  that  man  down  as  if  he  were  a  dog — 
worse,  lower  than  any  dog  ?  Mr.  Craig !  You 


298  THE  DESERTERS 

don't  know?  Well,  I  know!  I  know  it  all. 
And  I'll  tell  you  the  truth — the  truth  that  is  as 
clear  to  me  as  the  sunshine  streaming  through 
that  window." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


THERE  would  have  been  some  sort  of  a 
demonstration  after  such  an  outbreak, 
had  the  men  around  Madge  Summers 
not  been  under  a  stronger  spell  than  mere  hu- 
man emotion  —  that  of  military  discipline.    The 
only  one  who  moved  was  Lieutenant  Marston, 
and  he  merely  put  one  foot  forward  a  step  and 
drew  it  back. 

"Mr.  Craig/'  went  on  Madge  impressively, 
"you  went  to  Lieutenant  Marston's  home  that 
night  because  you  wanted  to  see  the  woman 
you  loved.  You  chose  a  night  when  you  knew 
her  husband  would  be  away.  You  drank  too 
much  during  the  evening,  and  when  you 
reached  the  house  —  you  found  some  one  there 
before  you." 

Jim  Craig's  face  was  like  chalk.    But  he  did 
not  speak.     Madge  saw    that    Marston  was 
299 


300  THE  DESERTERS 

slowly  bending  forward  from  the  line,  and  that 
he  was  staring  at  her  wildly. 

"It  was  a  stormy  night — with  rain — and 
wind" 

Jim  started  convulsively. 

"There  was  a  door  opening  into  an  inner 
room.  James  Craig,  what  did  you  see  ?" 

"See?"  faltered  Jim.    "See?    Why— I— 
The  wind — blew  the — door — open,  and " 

Madge  Summer's  mind  worked  like  a  flash. 
Before  he  could  collect  himself  to  contradict 
the  slip  he  felt  he  had  made,  she  broke  in : 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  saw.  Through  that 
doorway  you  saw  the  woman  you  were  in  love 
with — the  woman  you  had  come  through  the 
storm  to  see — in  the  arms  of  another  man !" 

Marston  lurched  away  from  the  line,  wav- 
ing to  and  fro  like  a  helplessly  drunken  man. 
His  forehead  and  cheeks  were  alternately  red 
and  white,  his  eyes  bloodshot. 

"Ah!"  cried  Madge,  with  a  little  hysterical 
laugh.  "I'm  right,  James  Craig.  It  was  like 
that!  You  saw  her  there  with  another  man 
— not  her  husband !" 

"Curse  him!  Yes!"  suddenly  screamed 
Marston,  shaking  a  trembling  fist  at  the  ceil- 


"REVEILLE"  301 

ing.  "It  was  like  that.  I'm  glad  I  killed  him ! 
The  cur!  I  had  to  kill  him!" 

"Lieutenant  Marston!  Do  you  know  what 
you  are  saying?"  shouted  Colonel  Parsons 
warningly,  as  he  started  up  from  his  chair. 

"Yes,  colonel,  I  know,"  insisted  Marston.  "It 
is  what  I  should  have  said  long  ago.  I  meant 
to  say  it  when  I  found  another  man  was  likely 
to  suffer  for  what  he  hadn't  done.  Now  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  all  about  it." 

The  man  was  too  wild  to  be  controlled — even 
if  there  had  been  any  disposition  to  stop  him. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  let  him  tell  his 
story  in  his  own  way. 

Jim  folded  his  arms  disdainfully.  His  atti- 
tude seemed  to  say  that  he  asked  nothing  but 
the  truth.  He  did  not  even  glance  at  Madge, 
but  kept  his  eyes  on  Marston. 

"On  that  night — it  was  very  windy  and  rain- 
ing hard — I  went  home — from  duty — near 
midnight.  When  I  opened  the  door,  I  saw  my 
wife  in — in — Captain  Harrison's  arms." 

"Yes.  Well?"  prompted  Madge,  as  he 
stopped.  "It  was  very  late,  and  yet  Captain 
Harrison — whom  Mr.  Craig  was  supposed  to 
have  killed  before  that  time — was  alive  and 


302  THE   DESERTERS 

embracing  Mrs.  Marston  ?  And  what  did  you 
do?" 

Jim  Craig  darted  forward.  Lieutenant  Col- 
lins pulled  him  back. 

"I  drew  my  service  revolver,  which  hung  at 
my  belt,"  replied  Marston,  slowly,  "and — shot 
him  dead." 

There  was  a  dramatic  pause  for  nearly  a 
minute.  Then  Madge  Summers,  in  a  tone  as 
calm  as  if  she  had  been  a  prosecuting  attor- 
ney, asked: 

"Mrs.  Marston  saw  it?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  she  do?" 

"She  stood  there,  shivering  and  moaning, 
while  I  put  my  pistol  back  in  its  holster.  I  saw 
that  the  bullet  had  gone  through  his  chest,  and 
I  knew  one  was  enough." 

"Yes?    And  then?" 

"I  told  her  I  had  always  suspected  her — ancl 
him.  I  remember  I  said  it  was  a  pity  one  bul- 
let couldn't  have  done  for  the  two  of  them. 
She  said  I  was  unjust — that  Harrison  had 
come  in  with  James  Craig,  who  had  been  drink- 
ing " 

"Mr.  Craig,   be   quiet,  please,"  interrupted 


"REVEILLE"  303 

Madge,  as  Jim  made  another  involuntary 
movement.  "Go  on,  Lieutenant  Marston." 

"She  said  the  two  men  had  quarreled,  and 
she  ran  out  of  her  room  in  her  wrapper,  try- 
ing to  stop  them.  But  she  couldn't.  Craig 
knocked  Harrison  down  with  his  fist,  and, 
thinking  he  had  killed  him,  ran  away." 

"But  Captain  Harrison  was  not  dead?" 

"No.  He  soon  revived,  and  my  wife  helped 
him  up.  Then  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and — 
I  came  in  and  killed  him." 

Colonel  Parsons  was  about  to  give  an  order 
of  some  kind,  when  Madge  caught  his  eye. 

"Let  us  hear  the  rest  of  it,  colonel,  won't 
you?"  she  begged.  "All  this  means  a  great 
deal  to  Mr.  Craig." 

"I  should  say  it  does,"  growled  the  colonel. 
"All  right!  I'll  wait." 

"My  wife  and  I  stood  looking  at  the  body 
for  a  few  minutes,"  continued  Marston,  in  a 
far-away  tone,  "and  she  asked  me  what  I  was 
going  to  do.  I  told  her  I  wouldn't  do  any- 
thing. I'd  killed  a  man  and  I  should  have  to 
take  my  medicine.  She  got  angry  at  this.  She 
said  she'd  had  lies  enough  told  about  her  al- 
ready at  the  post,  and  she  wouldn't  stand  hav- 


304  THE  DESERTERS 

ing  it  said  that  her  husband  had  killed  a  man 
on  her  account." 

"Poor  thing"!"  murmured  Madge  cynically. 

But  no  one  heard  her,  and  Marston  went  on, 
in  the  same  strained,  despairing  accents : 

"She  said  I  must  think  of  something,  and 
soon  I  did.  Jim  Craig  had  gone  away  think- 
ing he  had  killed  Harrison.  That  gave  me  an 
idea.  I  told  my  wife  to  remain  where  she  was 
while  I  went  out  for  a  minute  or  two.  She 
didn't  want  to  do  it.  It  frightened  her  to  be 
left  alone  with  the — the — body.  But  I  couldn't 
help  that.  I  had  on  my  storm  coat  and  pulled 
my  cap  down  over  my  eyes.  It  was  such  a 
bad  night  that  I  did  not  meet  anybody  except 
a  sentinel,  who  saluted  as  I  went  by.  I  made 
straight  for  Jim  Craig's  quarters " 

As  he  paused,  Madge,  with  hands  clasped, 
looked  at  Jim  Craig.  But  his  eyes  were  still 
fixed  on  Marston,  and  he  did  not  notice  her. 

"Who  did  you  see  at  Mr.  Craig's  quarters?" 
asked  Madge. 

"A  soldier — corporal " 

"Corporal  Thwayte?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  so.  I  said  I  wanted  Lieuten- 
ant Craig.  But  he  was  not  in  quarters." 


"REVEILLE"  305 

"Did  you  see  Lieutenant  Collins  ?" 

"No.  I  looked  among  Craig's  things  and 
opened  his  locker.  There  I  saw  his  revolver — 
in  its  holster.  I  took  out  the  pistol  and  slipped 
it  into  my  overcoat  pocket.  Then  I  asked  the 
corporal  if  he  knew  where  Lieutenant  Craig 
was.  He  said  he  didn't,  and  I  told  him  Craig 
would  have  to  be  arrested  when  he  was  found. 
Then  I  went  back  to  my  own  house  and  laid  the 
pistol  on  the  floor  near  Harrison's  body." 

"Well,  of  all  the  black,  infernal,  damnable 
tricks "  growled  the  colonel. 

"Hush !"  warned  Doctor  Long. 

Madge  suddenly  drew  a  revolver  from  her 
dress,  where  she  had  been  holding  it  concealed. 
It  was  a  heavy  weapon  of  the  regulation  cav- 
alry type. 

"Is  that  the  revolver,  Lieutenant  Marston  ?" 

He  took  it  in  his  hand  and  examined  the  butt 
for  several  moments. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  deliberately  at  last. 
"That  is  the  pistol." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Quite.  There  are  two  peculiar  nicks  in  the 
steel  where  it  is  let  into  the  rubber  stock.  I 
had  noticed  them  one  day  when  I  was  in 


3o6  THE  DESERTERS 

Craig's  quarters,  some  time  before.  He  had 
just  got  the  pistol  new,  and  he  gave  it  to  me  to 
look  at.  When  I  put  it  on  the  floor  by  the  side 
of  Harrison,  I  saw  the  nicks  and  thought  of 
the  evening  when  Craig  had  first  shown  it  to 
me." 

Madge  turned  to  Colonel  Parsons. 

"I  think,  colonel,  this  should  be  enough." 

"It  is,"  he  replied  sternly.  Then  he  bellowed : 
"Orderly!" 

When  Colonel  Parsons  roared  for  anybody 
like  that,  he  was  always  obeyed  on  the  jump. 
The  orderly  stood  in  front  of  him  and  saluted 
before  the  colonel  had  had  time  to  close  his 
mouth. 

"Bring  in  the  guard !" 

The  two  soldiers  who  had  escorted  Jim  Craig 
from  his  prison  entered.  The  colonel  pointed 
to  Marston. 

"Lieutenant  Marston  is  under  arrest,"  he 
said  gruffly.  "March  him  to  the  guard-house. 
Wait  a  moment !  Give  him  the  cell  from  which 
you  brought  Mr.  Craig." 

Marston  fell  in  between  the  two  troopers  and 
walked  away  without  a  word. 

"Is  Mr.  Craig  free,  colonel  ?"  asked  Madge. 


"REVEILLE"  307 

Colonel  Parsons  smiled  at  her  naivete — 
which,  perhaps,  was  partly  assumed. 

"Well,  hardly  that,  Miss  Summers.  This 
has  been  merely  an  informal  questioning,  and, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  whether  military  or  civil, 
proves  nothing.  The  matter  will  come  up  at 
the  court-martial  to-morrow,  and  then  some- 
thing decided  can  be  done.  Mr.  Craig  is  still  a 
prisoner,  but  I  will  change  his  prison.  He  will 
go  to  his  old  quarters,  giving  his  parole  to  re- 
main there  until  further  orders." 

Jim  Craig's  face  had  expressed  many  emo- 
tions during  Marston's  confession.  And  grad- 
ually it  had  softened.  Madge,  watching  him 
from  the  corner  of  her  eye,  saw  that  he  looked 
at  her — and  his  look  had  a  wistfulness  that  had 
never  been  there  since  that  awful  night  in  San 
Francisco,  when  he  had  learned  that  she  was 
an  army  detective.  Now  he  turned  to  Colonel 
Parsons  almost  cheerfully: 

"I  thank  you,  colonel.  I  give  my  parole,  of 
course.  I  know  I  did  not  mean  to  kill  Harri- 
son. But  who  would  have  thought  I  actually 
didn't  do  it?" 

"You  have  to  thank  Miss  Summers  for 
bringing  out  the  truth." 


3o8  THE   DESERTERS 

Jim  bowed  to  Madge  with  formal  gratitude, 
just  as  he  might  have  acknowledged  an  inesti- 
mable service  from  any  stranger.  ("How  can 
he  treat  me  so?"  thought  poor  Madge.)  Then 
he  continued,  addressing  the  colonel: 

"There  is  no  danger  of  my  being  tried  by 
anything  but  a  court-martial  now,  is  there  ?" 

"Not  if  it  should  be  shown  that  your  only 
offenses  were  striking  a  superior  officer  and 
desertion." 

"And  what  about  Lieutenant  Marston?" 
asked  Madge. 

"I  will  do  what  I  can  for  him  when  his  case 
comes  up.  He  will  be  tried  in  a  civil  court, 
of  course.  His  confession  will  simplify  mat- 
ters, and  I  think,  under  the  circumstances,  his 
sentence  will  not  be  very  severe." 

"You  don't  think  he  will  be  executed,  then  ?" 
she  persisted  anxiously. 

"No,  Miss  Summers.  There  isn't  a  jury  in 
Kansas  would  find  him  guilty  of  'first  degree/ 
considering  the  provocation.  Poor  fellow !  It 
will  be  hard  enough  on  him  without  that.  He 
will  be  dismissed  from  the  army,  of  course. 
And  when  the  civil  authorities  are  through 
with  him  he  will  be  forced  to  begin  life  all  over 


"REVEILLE"  309 

again  under  one  of  the  most  dreadful  handi- 
caps a  man  can  know.  Gentlemen!" 

The  last  word  was  snapped  at  the  officers 
along  the  wall.  They  all  drew  up  with  a  jerk. 
The  colonel,  as  stiff  as  if  he  had  swallowed  his 
sword,  stood  in  front  of  them  and  yelped: 

"Left  face!" 

As  one  man,  they  pivoted  on  their  heels  to 
the  left,  facing  the  open  doorway. 

"Forward !"  sang  out  the  colonel.    "Hurup!" 

This  last  ejaculation  was  understood  to  mean 
"March!" 

The  line  of  officers  tramped  heavily  out  of 
the  room.  Corporal  Thwayte,  at  a  signal  from 
the  colonel,  fell  in  behind.  When  they  had  all 
gone  the  colonel  closed  the  door. 

"Mr.  Craig !"  he  said  sharply. 

Jim  stood  at  "Attention !" 

"Yes,  colonel!" 

"You  see  Miss  Summers  sitting  there?" 

"Yes,  colonel." 

"Very  well.    Miss  Summers!" 

With  a  smile,  she  arose  and  also  stoocf  at 
"Attention!" 

"Yes,  colonel!" 

"My  dear,  you  have  saved  this  man's  life 


3io  THE   DESERTERS 

and — honor.  He  is  standing  here,  but  he  has 
no  words  to  thank  you.  I  think  he  is  embar- 
rassed because  the  doctor  and  I  are  here.  We 
are  going  out."  Then  to  Jim:  "You  can  go 
to  your  quarters  when  you  have  thanked  Miss 
Summers.  Report  to  me  in  the  morning.  In 
uniform.  Understand!  This  whole  con- 
founded thing  is  irregular,  but  I  hope  we'll  get 
back  to  discipline  to-morrow." 

He  took  Jim's  hand  and  shook  it.  Then, 
with  the  doctor  behind  him,  he  stamped  out  of 
the  room,  growling,  and  ordered  his  horse  for 
a  long  gallop  over  the  rolling  prairie.  He 
knew  that  would  compose  his  nerves,  if  any- 
thing could. 

******* 

Alone  together — for  the  first  time  since  that 
night  in  San  Francisco! 

Madge  was  seated  facing  the  window.  It 
was  her  disposition  to  turn  always  to  the  light 
when  she  could.  Jim  Craig  stood,  erect  and 
silent,  just  where  he  had  been  when  the  col- 
onel dropped  his  hand. 

So  they  remained  for  some  time,  Madge 
willing  to  speak,  but  afraid  of  a  rebuff.  He 


"REVEILLE"  311 

— well,  he  hardly  knew  what  to  do.  She  had 
saved  his  life.  That  was  beyond  all  question. 
On  the  other  hand,  was  it  not  she  who  by 
treachery  had  placed  it  in  jeopardy  ?  Could  he 
ever  forgive  her? 

Could  he  ?  What  was  this  strange  fluttering 
at  his  heart  as  he  noted  her  soft,  yet  firm,  pro- 
file, and  the  frank  gaze  of  her  gray  eyes? 
Hadn't  he  got  over  that  foolishness,  after  all 
the  injury  she  had  done  him  ?  Hadn't  he  ? 

In  the  endeavor  to  fight  his  way  clear  of  the 
perplexity  that  enveloped  him,  he  glanced  out 
of  the  window,  too.  An  elderly  robin,  waving 
about  on  an  elm  bough  that  brushed  the  glass, 
winked  at  him  impudently.  Jim  Craig  must 
have  been  more  unstrung  than  he  supposed,  for 
he  could  have  sworn  the  bird  chirped :  "Go  to 
her,  Jim!  It's  all  right !" 

"Madge!" 

"Jim!" 

As  he  took  her  two  hands  in  his,  she  ceased 
to  be  a  detective — because  detectives  don't  shed 
tears,  as  a  rule.  Certainly  not  in  business. 
The  warm  drops  on  his  fingers  remained  there 
till  they  dried  away.  He  would  no  more  have 


312  THE  DESERTERS 

brushed  them  off  than  he  would  have  struck 
her  in  the  face. 

There  was  a  long  pause.    Then 

"And  now,  Jim — dear,"  she  said  wistfully, 
"it's  time  to  say  good-by." 

"Madge,  can't  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"I'm  going  back  to  Washington  to-night," 
she  went  on  unheeding.  "I'm  glad  to  be  able 
to  wish  you  luck  with — with  a  light  heart." 

"A  light  heart,  Madge?" 

"There's  nothing  more  for  me  to  do  here." 

"Nothing  more.  Nothing  more — except — 
except — to  take  charge  of  my  life  as  long  as  it 
lasts,"  he  whispered  passionately. 

"No,  no!"  she  protested,  shaking  her  head. 
"But  say,  just  once,  that  you've  forgotten  what 
—what— I " 

He  pulled  her  roughly  into  his  arms,  though 
she  struggled.  At  last  she  dropped  her  head 
and  let  the  slow  tears  fall.  Then  she  looked 
up,  smiling,  with  quivering  lips  and  wet  eyes. 

"Never  say  more  I'm  a  witch !"  she  breathed 
softly.  "They're  cold,  unearthly  things  at  best, 
and  never  could  know  love  as  I'm  knowing  it  at 
this  minute !" 


"REVElLLfi"  313 

"But  you'll  want  your  broomstick,  to  fly  to 
the  moon,"  he  reminded  her. 

"We've  a  better  kingdom  than  any  old 
moon!"  was  her  reply. 

"Yes,  Madge — my  love!  Here!"  And  he 
held  her  closer  in  his  arms. 


END. 


A     000042211     3 


